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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23990605">Walking with Wolves</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/aleatory_fox/pseuds/aleatory_fox'>aleatory_fox</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Piece Me Back Together, Dear Heart [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Dom/sub Play, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Papa Vesemir, Polyamory, Soft Eskel (The Witcher), Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Lambert (The Witcher), The Witcher 2 Spoilers, The Witcher Lore</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 20:42:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>47,737</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23990605</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/aleatory_fox/pseuds/aleatory_fox</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Jaskier will leave his Witchers' sides to go and do his own thing - he is his own man, after all - but no matter how far he might wander, he always seems to gravitate back towards them, or is it the other way around? </p><p>Or: there are four seasons, and four Witchers, and through the course of a year Jaskier spends time with each of them; helping, healing and loving each in his own way.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert, Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Roach/Scorpion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Piece Me Back Together, Dear Heart [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1717648</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1039</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1022</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Winter Reunion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><hr/><p>“I swear that trail gets harder each year,” Jaskier griped as he walked through the open gates of Kaer Morhen at Eskel’s side. With the plentiful amounts of bandit and Scoia'tael camps - oh, and let’s not forget the bloody erynia, the mother of all harpies, Eskel had to deal with - it had taken the best part of a week, and Jaskier was ready for some time in the springs and a cuddle with a pile of warm, sleepy Witchers. They were always at their most pliable in the first few days after arriving home, and Jaskier rather enjoyed looking after them. “Or maybe I’m just getting old.”</p><p>“Don’t say shit like that, Buttercup. You look as young as the first blooms of spring,” Lambert swaggered his way into the courtyard, arms open, and Jaskier charged into them immediately, hugging his waist and burying his face against his firm chest, “fuck, don’t smell like them though. Tough trek?” </p><p>“Not an easy one.” Eskel rumbled, and Lambert left the bard with a ruffle of the hair to pull his brother into an embrace next. Eskel squeezed him firmly, “Hmm. You certainly feel a bit denser than when I last saw you. Been enjoying Vesemir’s cooking?”</p><p>“Oh, fuck you,” Lambert dropped his arms away and patted his stomach, still flat, thank you very much; he was <em> slightly </em> chunkier than his usually <em> exceptional </em> physique, but he liked to think it added gravitas. <em> Probably not the best word to use.</em> “More cushion for the pushin’.”  His head tilted up as Eskel took his chin, one thumb gliding across his lower lip. </p><p>Amber eyes appraised and inspected, admiring the healthy glow of tanned skin, the slope of muscled shoulders beneath Lambert’s shirt and the brightness of his eyes; the youngest Witcher was fighting fit. “You look good,” Eskel’s hand dropped away and he led Scorpion towards the stables. “I’ll be sure to conduct a closer inspection later.”</p><p>“I will, of course, have to quality-assure the process.” Jaskier piled some bags into Lambert’s arms and shoved him towards the castle. “Help me unpack, then we’re going for a bath.” </p><p>***</p><p>Eskel joined Vesemir in the kitchen for some food and a debrief. Porridge oats with cinnamon and honey twinned with a brimmed mug of mead; the customary 'first meal' if you arrived outside of dinner time. Full of energy to replenish some of what had been lost on the walk up here. “Geralt?” Eskel picked up the spoon and stirred in a bit more cinnamon from the shaker nearby.</p><p>“Not yet,” Vesemir took a seat opposite and lifted a hand when Eskel looked up quickly from his food; the last time Geralt hadn’t arrived before him, it was because he’d been murdered by fanatics. “If he spent the majority of his time in the south, then it’ll take him longer than usual. No need to panic.”</p><p>“Mmm,” Eskel shovelled in a few mouthfuls of porridge, savouring the sweetness and the immediate sense of relief for a few moments; the climb really had been a royal pain in the ass this year. “How’s Lambert been? You’re both still alive, Kaer Morhen’s still standing, so I’m assuming you established a truce.”</p><p>“You forget, lad. I raised every single one of you. Although, granted, I believe it was you who gave us the means to raise that particular pain in the ass,” he swivelled to get himself a mug of mead, and Eskel smiled down at his food.  Vesemir continued, “He spent the first week mostly asleep. I made sure he was fed and watered, but left him to it. Then he came out and started findin’ some things to do around the place. I set him some projects. He’s worked hard. Trained hard. Been sleepin’ in your room though, not his. And I had to go in a couple of times to stem some nightmares. He’s not fully asleep when he has them. Last time I saw that was in some boys just after the Grasses,” he sipped thoughtfully at his drink. “I’ve made him a brew to help with it. He doesn’t like it because he has to drink it a few hours before and it makes him drowsy. Stubborn. Always has been.”</p><p>“I’ll make sure he drinks it,” Eskel murmured. “What about you? All good?”</p><p>“I’ll put some in your room then, shall I?” A knowing little smirk, but he didn’t comment further. “Aye, nothin’ new. The mine’s still nice and clear. Sent Lambert there a few times to check. He’s had a go at the harpies too. All the hunting’s done, most of the gatherin’. We’ve got a full pantry for the winter. Hell, I’d have him back with me all the time if I didn’t know he hated every second. You’re lookin’ mighty healthy for a Witcher that’s just finished a season on the Path - tired, and smell like seven shades of shit - but healthy.”</p><p>“Jaskier,” Eskel grinned. “He’s relentless. If he so much as hears my stomach rumble, or I mention an ache, we’re suddenly in a tavern eating stew and playing Gwent, with a room all paid for upstairs. It’s quite full on sometimes, but when he’s off doing his own thing it’s like someone’s ripped my heart out.”</p><p>“Hmm.” Vesemir’s smile grew a bit bigger, but he stifled any further comment with a mouthful of mead.</p><p>“Well, now I know where Geralt gets it from.” Eskel smirked, scraped the remains of his porridge into his mouth and left his tool. “Going for a bath and some sleep. See you at dinner.”</p><p>“It's a casserole.” He toasted his empty tankard as Eskel departed, and then turned to attend to said casserole simmering away on the stove. For the meat to be tender and well-flavoured it needed to cook slowly over about six hours. Nothing but the best for his boys’ first evening home. </p><p>***</p><p>Before heading down to the springs, Eskel stripped away his armour in his room, smiling as he saw the neatly made bed. Lambert had changed all the linen sheets and removed any evidence of his presence, but his scent still permeated the furs thrown over the top and Eskel ran his hand affectionately over them as he walked by. Jaskier had already begun to unpack, and his lute sat propped up against the writing desk by the window, along with a pile of his dirty clothes ready to be laundered. </p><p>These small markers of his family made Kaer Morhen feel less like a ruined bastion, and more like the home it was meant to be. Vesemir, stalwart and caring. Lambert, chaotic and loyal. Jaskier, loving and fierce. Just one missing. And he was too many things to list.</p><p>Now barefoot and shirtless, Eskel headed down the winding staircases.</p><p>Other than the people, the bathhouses were one of the few things Eskel liked about the keep. He could spend hours spread out in one of the pools on his back letting the water soak away all the aches and pains of the Path, while daydreaming about pretty eyes and poetry. The experience was only improved when there were a few pairs of eager hands waiting nearby to assist. Those hands were at the forefront of his mind as he stepped through the low archway and chucked his towel onto one of the old benches. He could see Jaskier lounging in one of the pools, head tipped back in bliss, but no Lambert. </p><p>
  <em> No Lambert. </em>
</p><p>Eskel’s eyes narrowed as his internal bullshit detector went off, and he folded his trousers silently before crouching to the floor next to a pillar. The smell of the hot springs was strong enough to mask any underlying scents, so it was a matter of listening for bated breath and thundering heartbeat. <em> Nothing. </em> Fuck. Eskel rose slowly to his feet and dodged to the opposite side of the corridor, leaning to glance around the corner before ducking back. <em> Nothing still.</em> Trust Lambert to have found somewhere to hide that Eskel didn’t even know existed. </p><p>By this point, Jaskier had spotted him and was smirking with his eyes closed. Eskel growled, “Where’s Lambert, Jaskier?”</p><p>“Lambert? No idea to whom you are referring,” the bard’s eyes opened lazily, and he lifted a hand from the water to inspect his nails, already scrubbed clean. “Are you going to tiptoe around like a ballerina all evening, or are you going to join me?” </p><p>“I think my dance career might be a safer bet currently.” Eskel walked slowly towards the edge of the pool and dumped his wash kit at the side. He didn’t get the chance to step in, because the expected ambush manifested itself with impressive speed and precision. Lambert exploded from the shadows, but didn’t go in for the shoulder barge; he anticipated the twisting sidestep his quarry would deploy to save his skin and snared his arms around Eskel’s waist, using him as a pivot. With a grunt of effort, he swung around the front to pull the larger form into the water with the assistance of gravity and momentum. It worked. Cat-wolf toppled bear-wolf and the resulting tidal wave of warm water surged over Jaskier, momentarily obscuring the scuffle. Much gurgled cursing and frantic splashing ensued as the two grappled for dominance; Lambert’s agility and wile a good match for Eskel’s strength and speed. </p><p>The bard’s vision cleared just as the struggle stopped, and he tried to stifle his chuckle. Eskel stood in the centre of the pool with Lambert on his back, all limbs wrapped tightly around his torso, teeth pressed to the side of his neck. “Yield.” Muffled.</p><p>“Not quite sure this counts as a grapple. Certainly not one Theo taught.”</p><p>“Does. He lacked imagination.” Lambert’s arms and legs tightened as if to emphasise the point.</p><p>“Mm,” Eskel dropped a hand to the ankle pressed just above his hip and held it in place. “Let go. Or you’ll regret it.” A dismissive harrumph was the answer, and so Eskel slid his fingers slowly between Lambert’s toes. The response was immediate and his limpet let go with a startled yelp, wriggling and thrashing to get away, Eskel calmly glanced over his shoulder, “Yield?”</p><p>“Geralt - told you - bastard,” Lambert growled while doing his level best to stay afloat and extract his leg from Eskel’s <em> abuse</em>. He could resist - <em> no he couldn’t. </em> “Alright - yield, yield - fuck!” His freedom was not granted, and Eskel turned to yank him back through the water towards him. He scooped Lambert up, carried him across the pool - “Do I weigh <em> nothing </em> to you? Did you take some Rook before coming down here? What the actual fuck, Eskel?” - and then dumped him next to Jaskier, with enough room for his own backside to squeeze in between them, arms draped behind their shoulders.</p><p>“I thought the plan was perfectly executed,” Jaskier stretched his legs and tilted his head to Eskel’s shoulder. “Particularly liked the dismount into the water. Flawless.”</p><p>“Why thank you, Buttercup. When he began skulking around like an alghoul I was a bit worried that--.” A large hand clasped over Lambert’s mouth, and when Jaskier opened his to protest, he too was silenced, but with a more gentle pressure.</p><p>“Hush, children, let daddy rest now,” Eskel crowded them both to his chest and slumped back with a contented sigh. The silence was blessed; Lambert looked initially mutinous, but once he had settled against Eskel he was quite content to stay there, his eyes lidded. The same could not be said for Jaskier. The bard licked slowly up the middle of Eskel’s palm, pausing in his trajectory to swirl salaciously in the centre. The Witcher grunted and dropped his hand away, “I see.” </p><p>“Mmhm,” the bard wriggled his eyebrows and then slumped against Eskel’s shoulder, eyes closed. “Think Geralt’s alright?”</p><p>“Mm - ph - mmph.” Lambert side-eyed his captor expectantly. Eskel considered him for a moment with a raised eyebrow, middle finger curling over Lambert’s lower lip, before finally releasing him. “As I was saying, pretty boy’ll be fine. He probably got so into tanning himself in Toussaint that he lost track of time.”</p><p>“You’re a fine one to talk. Don’t think I’ve ever seen your pale ass look so sun-kissed,” Eskel cuffed Lambert over the top of the head. “Where have you been sunbathing? Pretty sure that’s not a view Vesemir would have tolerated outside this room.” </p><p>“Got a bit claustrophobic three weeks in, so I went camping for a few days with a hammock and spent most of it bollock naked in my boat, fishing,” Lambert grinned. “No one comes up this far, well… most of the time.” He averted his gaze away from Jaskier, the guilt of that particular oversight weighed quite heavily still, but Eskel was there to catch him. His hand lifted from where it rested idly on the edge of the spring to push Lambert’s head back around until it rested against his shoulder.</p><p>“None of that. Old news.” Eskel studied Lambert closely from the corner of his eye, scratching fingers through his stubble and then more softly over the top of his head. The gentle contact made his eyes flutter with pleasure, and Eskel felt him melt. It had been months since Lambert had enjoyed anything more than a platonic embrace, and even then Eskel doubted he would accept that from Vesemir. The youngest wolf could still be a prickly bastard towards their senior; a combination of different issues from the last six decades. “Go upstairs and put your collar on. I want to find you relaxing in the centre of my bed when I get there. Soft clothes only. On the fur.” Specific orders softly spoken, he nuzzled a kiss to Lambert’s head and then released him. There was no question as to whether he would be obeyed. Lambert left the water, grabbed a towel and padded out of the bathhouse without another word.</p><p>Eskel waited a good five minutes after the sound of footfalls had faded even to his ears, and curled his arm tightly around Jaskier’s shoulders. “Did he say anything while I was gone?”</p><p>“He confessed that he’d been sleeping in your bed, but assured me he’d changed all the sheets so it was fresh for us,” Jaskier smiled fondly. “And he also said he was feeling better, but was, and I quote, ‘bored out of my fucking mind and really glad you’re back’. During his stay, he has learned to use a bow, decreased his time for scaling Kaer Morhen by one minute and thirty-two seconds, and has expanded his liquor expertise into cider, so we’re going to be doing some mulling in the next few days.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Eskel grinned. Manic energy was definitely a sign that Lambert was healing, but then that smile faded when he remembered his conversation in the kitchen. “Vesemir says he’s still having nightmares and is too stubborn to take something to help. I will talk to him about it tomorrow, but he might not need it with us here.” </p><p>“Perhaps. He <em>looks</em> like Lambert now though,” Jaskier shuffled away and grabbed Eskel’s wash kit. They’d replenished the scrubs and the soaps in Ard Carraigh before making the final stretch of the journey, and Jaskier picked out a citrusy bar along with a cloth. “And if he’s feeling good enough about himself to sunbathe naked that has to be a plus.” </p><p>“I’ve never understood how he doesn’t get sunburn on his cock,” Eskel rubbed the back of his head. “He does it on the Path sometimes. Finds a nice, empty spot in the middle of nowhere and just sprawls in a tree, or on top of a rock.” </p><p>Jaskier let out a guffaw, stifling it into his elbow as he lathered the soap. “Yes. Quite the mystery. Perhaps you should inspect it closely for peculiarities. Again, I’m happy to assist.” </p><p>“Mmm.” Eskel grinned and took the offered soap. “I’m sure you are.”</p><p>Barely half an hour later, Eskel was sprawled in bed with Lambert curled at his side and Jaskier draped over his chest. Too exhausted to do much more than stroke Lambert’s hair and back - which seemed ample enough for the man in question - Eskel dropped off to sleep until Vesemir hammered on the door for dinner.</p><p>Lambert grumbled and reluctantly rolled out of bed. “It’s fucking casserole again.”</p><p>***</p><p>Two days and an entire vat of mulled cider later, Geralt finally walked through the gates of Kaer Morhen. He didn’t look any more worse for wear than the others - tired, filthy, and still with the remnants of his tan from Nilfgaard - but <em> normal. </em>They all poured out into the courtyard to meet him, with the exception of Lambert who had been dispatched into the surrounding forests to chop some firewood. Jaskier pounced first, and received an arm slung across his shoulders as he wrapped his own about Geralt’s waist. “Get held up? Eskel says you’re usually always second after Lambert.”</p><p>“Mm, in a way,” Geralt stepped into the shade of the stable and patted his horse on the side of her face, “Roach’s been struggling over the last couple of weeks. Stopped riding her. I’m not sure what’s wrong. Peculiar scent to her, but she’s still eating. Even started putting on weight.” He removed her bridle, head tilted to the side with a soft smile as she butted into his chest. “Can’t tell me, can you?”</p><p>Eskel walked past and ran his hand briefly across Geralt’s back, before he took the opportunity to greet Scorpion, and Jaskier began to scoop oats into a bucket.</p><p>“Hmm, I think I can,” Vesemir helped Geralt remove the rest of the tack and bags, before he ran his hand down Roach’s neck. He leaned in close, pressing his ear to her back with his eyes closed, and inhaled deeply. He bent down to feel over her stomach, his palm flat but firm. She stomped in irritation and tossed her head in his direction. “Well, congratulations, Geralt, you’re going to be a grandpa.” His pups hadn’t been around pregnant women, of any species, enough to recognise the scent off the cuff. Even when Kaer Morhen had been running at full capacity, it was far simpler to purchase animals from the farms at the bottom of the mountain than to breed them here.</p><p>“Sorry, what?” Geralt, who had been removing some of the bags from the side of the saddle, now turned to stare at Vesemir in disbelief. Jaskier stopped mid-shovel and the oats poured back into the bag, and Eskel bit down on the side of his hand to stem the automatic bark of laughter that erupted from his chest.</p><p>“I’d say she’s about nine or ten months along. Mares only tend to start showing at nine months,” Vesemir guided Roach’s face to him. “Well, it’s been a long time since we’ve had a baby born at Kaer Morhen, little daughter.”</p><p>Jaskier was stuck between a number of unhelpful emotions. Surprise, awe, excitement and <em> amusement. </em> The last one was most dangerous, because he was currently watching Geralt’s eyes flicker to and fro as he ran the numbers in his head. “She hasn’t been stabled with a stallion, since -,” his eyes narrowed in on Scorpion, who was leaning over his stall, trying to nose at Roach’s haunch. “<em>Fuck.</em>”</p><p>Geralt reached into his belt for his trophy knife and Jaskier leapt out in front of him with his arms spread. “Now, now, Geralt, this is a beautiful thing. Scorpion is a noble horse, a true thoroughbred, brave, and doting, and gentle,” he just let his words run in hopes of finding some that might work, side-stepping into Geralt’s path each time the Witcher tried to circumvent him. “Two young lovers who seized the opportunity when they could, during a bleak, bleak time, and -.”</p><p>“Move, Jaskier. I’m gelding it.”</p><p>Eskel, who had been rolling around in laughter against the stable wall, now stepped forward to his horse’s defence. “You will do no such fucking thing. Not his fault Roach can’t keep her legs shut.” He ran a hand over Scorpion’s nose. “You’re just too much of a stud to resist, aren’t you?”</p><p><em> Not helping, Eskel. Not helping. </em> “Geralt, please, Scorpion did what came naturally. A beautiful, willing woman who wants to share a night of passion, of course any young soldier would take the opportunity to sow his… oats.” Jaskier was scrambling now, because Eskel was laughing again and Geralt looked about ready to geld him <em> and </em> his horse.</p><p>“You - he -.” Eyes wide with fury, teeth clenched, Geralt held his trophy knife pointed threateningly in Scorpion's direction for a moment longer, before he shoved it into his belt and turned to Roach, his hands lifting to cup her face and bring it to him, “- I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”</p><p>It wasn’t uncommon for Geralt to misplace his frustrations. Jaskier had certainly borne the brunt of such displacement on more than one occasion. Now that he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around his horse’s neck, the bard realised the true origins of his anger. He felt guilty for making Roach perform her duties while pregnant. If only those that claimed Geralt was an unfeeling beast could see him now, tenderly comforting his horse, they would never question his heart again. “What do we do?”</p><p>Vesemir, who had been standing passively by, now opened the stall door nearest and nudged Geralt away so that he could guide Roach into her quarters. “I would say we have a month at most. She could have chosen a better season. We’ll probably have to bring her inside with us when it’s her time. The issue will be the time she needs to wean it.”</p><p>Geralt placed his hands on his hips and stared out into the courtyard. Jaskier glanced at Eskel for some support - <em> at least he’d stopped laughing, the scoundrel - </em>but when he looked back, Geralt had shouldered his bags and was storming into the keep.</p><p>“Well, you weren’t any help at all,” Jaskier punched Eskel on the shoulder. “It’s not his fault Roach can’t keep her legs closed?”</p><p>“Oh, come on. It’s hilarious,” Eskel sighed. “There’s something else going on in that thick head of his. Something must have happened in Nilfgaard. Let him sulk for the evening, and we’ll pry it out of him when he’s had a night’s sleep and something decent to eat.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Winter Spices</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You’re so very beautiful, my dear,” Jaskier spoke softly as he weaved yet another braid into Roach’s mane. She was content having spent two hours being fastidiously groomed by Geralt who had spoken to her softly throughout, and now she tugged hay free from the netting bound to the side of the stall and occasionally tilted her head to nudge into Jaskier’s elbow. “You’re going to make a truly outstanding mother to a gorgeous little foal. We must really start thinking of a name. We can’t leave it to Geralt, I mean… <em> Roach. </em> I’m ever so sorry about that. And Scorpion,” he glanced over his shoulder at the stallion nosing through his bucket of oats, “is not much better, is it now? I suppose you should be happy they named you at all. Redanian soldiers just say ‘horse’ or ‘beast’.”</p><p>“She ever talk back?” Lambert smirked as he shouldered his way through the ajar stable doors. Although he’d worked hard through the end of the summer and the autumn, there were still a number of last minute chores that needed to be completed, including some repairs on the scaffold. </p><p>“Surprisingly not. Although Geralt talks to her so much that I’m starting to believe she’s just a very discerning conversationalist as were the previous editions of Roach. I will persist!” Jaskier smiled as he tied off the third braid and smoothed a hand down her neck. Such a precious creature. Lambert drew close and so the bard naturally turned to place a kiss on the nearest available part of his face, only to jump with a startled gasp when he was confronted with the rope in the Witcher’s hands. It wasn’t being <em> brandished </em> at him. Just held. But it still sent a knife of fear through his back. A psychological reminder of the pain that had been caused.</p><p>“You alright?” Lambert pulled back abruptly and followed Jaskier’s eyes down to the rope in his hands. It didn’t take a genius to work it out, and he grimaced. “Sorry, I didn’t think.”</p><p>“No, it’s - it’s fine,” Jaskier heaved a deep sigh and extended a hand to touch the rough hemp fibres coiled around Lambert’s fist, forcing himself into contact with the thing that still caught him off guard when <em> wielded </em> by someone. “It’s stupid. I shouldn’t still react in that way. I mean, it’s just <em> rope. </em>” </p><p>“It’s what it represents,” Lambert looked at the braid in Roach’s mane, and then across to the stable doors. “I think both of us have some things we need to figure out.”</p><p>“Like your nightmares?” </p><p>“Mm,” Lambert grunted, noncommittally, and then realised he was going to say anyway, because he told Buttercup fucking everything for some reason. “I’m - uh - the dreams are about the -,” he growled, scrubbed a hand over his face and turned away, “about not being able to take back control, and I’m worried that I’m not gunna’ be able to do <em> that </em> anymore without - <em> that</em>, in my head. And, uh -.” He knew he wasn’t being clear. The rationalisations were still a hurricane in his mind, but Jaskier seemed to <em> get </em> him. Every time. It didn’t matter how convoluted his words were. He listened. And that was one of the many reasons Buttercup was so precious.</p><p>“No one will ask you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with, my love.”</p><p>“I know. Tell that to my fucking brain,” Lambert huffed, and then looked at the rope thoughtfully. “Perhaps we could help each other out. You could use this to tie me up, do something like this braid,” he reached out and ran his fingertips over the ridges of the plait, “I’ve seen them do it in whorehouses. All pretty knots and patterns. Maybe if you make it into something, I dunno - <em> pretty</em>, then you won’t be so scared of it anymore.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Jaskier grinned, eyes sparkling. “Yes, you do look rather lovely when you’re all trussed up.” He was pretty certain he saw a flush emerge above Lambert’s collar, but it could just be the cold; the temperature was dropping rapidly now that winter was closing in and the first heavy snows were due.</p><p>“And, uh… maybe then we could just see how it goes, and Eskel will be there in case it <em> doesn’t </em> … go. For both of us.” <em> Because Eskel was their rock. </em>He was nodding, as if agreeing with a conflicting voice in his head, and Jaskier reached out and stroked the backs of his fingers down his cheek. Lambert tilted against them, and let out a contented sigh before he turned to head out. “I’ll leave you to Roach. S’probably the only intelligent conversation you’re gunna’ get all winter.” A toothy grin, and he was gone.</p><p>Jaskier looked back at the mare and scritched behind one swivelling ear. “Now, let’s discuss those names...”</p><p>***</p><p>Three days. Geralt was barely <em> present </em> for three days. He trained and worked hard, ate his meals, played cards and then he went to bed. Jaskier’s attempts at affection were met with a soft smile and a ruffle of the hair, but otherwise Geralt was very much lost in his own head. The crease of his brow and the slightly absent gloss to his eyes indicated as such. He wasn’t <em> angry </em> or even <em> dismissive. </em> He just wasn’t <em> there. </em> The worst part of it all was Geralt sleeping in his <em> own bed. </em> By the third night, Eskel was about ready to march into his room and drag him back to his <em> rightful place </em> by the gods-damned hair. In <em> his </em> bed, with the three of them, and then at least he could nurse his surliness wrapped in warm furs and Eskel’s arms. “I’m running out of patience. He needs to talk to me about it now, or I’m going to sit on him until he does.”</p><p>“Give him a bit longer. He’s just putting the words in order. He mentioned he hasn’t been in Nilfgaard for some months. Temeria, apparently.” Jaskier chided, but he was only half attending to Eskel’s frustrations. He was too intent on his work. Namely binding Lambert up in the most beautiful design he could concoct. There was no rush and on three occasions he’d changed his mind and loosened the bindings again; Lambert didn’t seem to mind. </p><p>The Witcher had been sitting perfectly still for around forty-five minutes now, his arms pulled behind his back, his hands over the top of his ass. The rope crossed his torso several times and bound his arms to his back in tight loops that pulled into the muscles of his biceps and forearms; Jaskier had emphasised the broadness of his shoulders with a triangle that dipped down to a point ending at the top of a plait that followed the length of Lambert’s spine. It was a masterpiece of intricate ties and criss-crossing patterns designed to follow the natural musculature of the canvas. A stunning, flushed canvas that had gone misty eyed around twenty-five minutes ago; Jaskier checked on him regularly, placing soft kisses on his neck and face, whispering gentle praises that caused those parted lips to flick up into faint smiles of pleasure. Watching Lambert enjoy himself - flush, flex, and become <em> very </em> hard inside his braies - took the fear away from the rope against his skin. How could Jaskier fear something so beautiful? It was perfect therapy.</p><p>“We’re done.” The bard tied off the last of the slack at Lambert’s wrists and tickled his fingers over one bound arm, smiling when the Witcher straightened and gasped. He scooted back from the bed and into Eskel’s waiting arms to watch Lambert flex and tug at his restraints; his eyes flickering and his head bowed. “Have you got the - ?” Jaskier tilted his head back and Eskel indicated the trophy knife propped on the nightstand within arm’s reach. <em> Good. </em> They watched for a moment longer, Jaskier rubbing his ass against Eskel’s hips and delighting in the hardness already there, before they climbed back onto the mattress. Jaskier caught those plush lips - always possessed by a roguish little smirk, but now slack and full - in a deep kiss and Eskel pressed close behind, running his fingers across bound skin in featherlight caresses. </p><p>Lambert arched and moaned, so Eskel pressed firmer, tucking his fingers behind the ropes at his waist to draw him back. Another breathy sound, faint and needy, as Eskel slid a hand down the front of Lambert’s braies, nudging the waistband until it clung loosely to his thighs, he stroked him firmly, rewarded when Lambert’s hips swayed forward into his grip. “You’re so fucking good like this. Look at you,” Eskel growled into his neck, watching Jaskier draw back and admire, mouth agape and eyes hungry. “All ours.” Jaskier pressed himself close again, his mouth working across bisected sections of skin flush with blood and sensitive, nails raked over ribs and teeth grazed hardened nipples and Lambert panted and growled, tugging against the bindings on his arms and leaking into Eskel’s palm.  </p><p>It was going well. Until it <em> wasn’t. </em> Perhaps it was the moment his face pushed into the mattress and the memory of when his head had been shoved into cold flagstones - the angle, the pressure, he wasn’t sure - or even the first gentle touch over his entrance - because he hadn’t been touched <em> there </em> since - but something sharp and cold shattered through Lambert’s hazy bliss. Figurative, but just as painful, just as finite and brutal. His pupils narrowed and every muscle coiled. <em> Word. There was a fucking word. Where was his word? </em> He struggled and the ropes bit at him. It wasn’t a good bite. Not now that fear was clawing at the edges of his mind. Not now that Eskel’s room had shrunk into the background and he was back in Vizima. <em> Word. Remember the word. </em>He whined and struggled again, and Eskel was already off the bed reaching for his knife. Lambert found his voice, “Merigold… s-stop.” He thought he was shouting, but it wasn’t, it was barely a whisper. The sensation reminded him of the winter he’d spent outside of Kaer Morhen in Kaedwen. The moment the ice of the Pontar had broken beneath his feet and the water had swallowed him. Numb darkness. The cold nails of winter cut into him now just as they had then.</p><p>The ropes fell loose as Eskel cut through each level of Jaskier’s intricate pattern, and then he was in their arms, his face pushed into Eskel’s neck and Buttercup wrapped around his back. His breathing came in wretched, shuddering gasps and he realised in a horrific moment of lucid clarity that he was <em> crying. Fuck. </em> Never gunna’ live this one down. <em> Fuck off, asshole. </em>“Sorry.” </p><p>“Don’t,” Eskel murmured, arms tightening. “You have nothing to be sorry about.”</p><p>“Nothing, my love.” Jaskier agreed and pressed a kiss to the back of his shoulder, and slowly Lambert came back to himself. An awareness that he was more than just the thoughts in his head. He had arms, legs, fingers; he flexed each and then slowly sat up. He was sprawled between Eskel’s legs, against his chest, and Jaskier knelt just behind him now, hands on his thighs.</p><p>“So, that didn’t go to plan then, did it?” Lambert sighed.</p><p>“It did and it didn’t, it depends on how you reflect.” Jaskier reached out again. “What was the trigger? The thought in your head the moment you began to fall?”</p><p>Silence. Lambert was considering. Unwilling really to go back, but it felt safe, so he probed tentatively at the snarling beast coiled in the back of his head. “When my face pressed into the bed. It - uh, I didn’t feel like I was - I felt like a… thing, not a person. Like I was just going to be done to, not - have. Fuck, it doesn’t even make any sense.” He squirmed out of Eskel’s arms, only to flop with his back against his chest, head tilted back against one firm shoulder. His legs kicked out to drape over Eskel’s thighs, one heel nudging at Jaskier’s rear.</p><p>“Makes plenty of sense. Perhaps we chose the wrong position. How do you feel now?”</p><p>“Good.” He stretched up against Eskel and closed his eyes. <em> Yeah, really good.  </em> Jaskier grinned, and Lambert saw it through his eyelashes. Always so beautiful. Like a damned sunrise. He lifted a hand and took Jaskier’s wrist to yank him forward into a kiss. The smile tasted good. Just as a sunrise should taste. Warm and hot, like mead, and laughter, and their summer in Posada. It didn’t take long for his hands to wander down over the bard’s body; Jaskier was soft on the surface - his skin cared for, supple from his lotions - but when Lambert’s fingertips pushed a little harder, he found a firmness in the muscles of his ass and thighs, a strength in his back as it arched up for a kiss with Eskel. They must have laid sprawled like this for hours. <em> Maybe </em> . Lambert lost track of time. However, a strong need coiled deep in his chest as that <em> time </em> ticked by. He wanted to be wrapped in the strength he didn’t feel like he had right now. The strength offered by the two men around him; the bulwark behind him - his rock, his anchor - and the aggressive sunshine pressed against his chest. Strong, and brilliant, and beautiful. “Fuck me. Now.” </p><p>“Hmm, not really sure that’s a good idea,” Jaskier whispered, pulling away from Eskel’s lips to nuzzle into the side of Lambert’s head. “You could drop badly, and you won’t be right for days.”</p><p>“Please. Drive out the cold.” Lambert wasn’t even sure Jaskier would know what he meant but - <em> he did </em> . Just like all the other times. The bard tilted his head to the side, blue eyes soft, tousled brown hair stripping away the years from his face. And then he was slipping from the bed, shedding his clothes and plucking the vial of oil from the floor where it had rolled, discarded with the ropes. Eskel’s hands slid under his thighs and Lambert tilted his head, spine arched, for the kiss waiting for him. This time, when slender fingers pressed into him, he felt only a spread of heat through his stomach. Eskel raised his own knees, spreading them so that Lambert was splayed further, his hips raised; Jaskier pressed in close, the head of his cock hot and heavy against Lambert’s ass, and the Witcher arched eagerly for it. He gripped onto the bard’s hips as he pushed inside, loosening his bruising hold only when Eskel’s hands slid briefly over his to pull them away. The room faded again, but this time it was Jaskier’s voice whispering in Lambert’s ear, his body moving against his in a gentle, deep rhythm that filled him with heat and <em> love. </em> Eskel’s body behind and around him - strong, protective - his hands touching Lambert’s chest, his thighs, and then eventually his cock as he drew near. </p><p>When he came, he pulsed hot strips over his own stomach and arched as Jaskier worked into him; the kiss was wet, sloppy, and he panted a breathless chuckle into the bard’s mouth that was returned with a little nip to his lower lip. And Lambert just slipped into blissful nothing.</p><p>Later, as Jaskier sat nestled between Eskel’s thighs putting his mouth to good use, Lambert murmured in his sleep and buried his face against Eskel’s hip. “Feainnbleidd.” Jaskier drew his tongue away from Eskel’s cock long enough to cast a questioning glance upwards.</p><p>Eskel grinned, stroking his fingers through Lambert’s hair. “Sun Wolf,” he turned his gaze back to Jaskier. “Must be dreaming about you.”</p><p>Jaskier's heart took flight. </p><p>***</p><p>“You have a choice. You drink it and you sleep here, or you don’t drink it and you go and sleep in your own bunk.” Eskel folded his arms across his chest in a mirror image of Lambert opposite. It was a standoff, but one he fully intended to win. The brew, still warm from where Eskel had mixed it with hot water and honey, sat steaming on the table between them. “Geralt told me about what happened when you woke up from a nightmare next to him, and Vesemir says you’ve been doing the same. Can’t risk it with Jaskier so close.”</p><p>“They don’t happen every night. Not even that bad.” Lambert eyed the tankard in distaste. “Don’t like not being able to stay awake if I want to. That shit gets you killed.”</p><p>“You think I’m going to throttle you in your sleep?” Eskel’s eyebrows sprung towards his hairline.</p><p>“No, you’re a pussy cat. Buttercup, however,” Lambert made a show of looking serious, but a wry smirk peaked the corners of his lips, and he heaved a sigh. The choice was - <em> well, there wasn’t one. </em> He didn’t like sleeping on his own when sleeping next to Eskel was an option, and Jaskier was within arm’s reach. What kind of dickhead turned that down? Then there was always the chance of Geralt too. Not that pretty boy had stopped sulking yet. “You won’t, uh - leave me until I wake up, right? I mean, the last time I drank a decoction… it didn’t,” he grit his teeth, “I didn’t end up in such a good state.”</p><p>“I’ll be right here. All night. And as much as you hate Vesemir, you know he’d never do anything to put you at risk,” Eskel murmured, softly. “Besides, my mornings would be incomplete without a face full of your dragon breath.”</p><p>“Dunno what you’re on about, I always breathe roses and sunshine.” Lambert picked up the tankard, tested the temperature against his lip and then knocked it back. It was sweet and tangy and just fucking awful. He grimaced as he passed the tankard across to Eskel. “Fuck, was there actually any potion in that or did you just heat up some honey and spices?”</p><p>“Guess we’ll find out. Vesemir said two hours.”</p><p>“Challenge accepted.” Lambert threw himself into the centre of Eskel’s bed and stared at the ceiling. </p><p>“You think you can stay awake?” Eskel smirked as he pulled his shirt over his head and slotted himself down on the side, eyeing Lambert’s determined glare with amused interest. Resisting a potion conceived and brewed by Vesemir <em> dedicated </em> to overcoming a Witcher’s mutagens and metabolism was nigh impossible. Didn’t mean it wasn’t going to be amusing watching Lambert try to keep his eyes open when they started to grow heavy.</p><p>“Improvise. Adapt. Overcome. Se'ege na tuvean!” Lambert punched the air above his head, and Eskel rolled his eyes. “Where’s Buttercup?”</p><p>“In the library digging out every book with the word ‘horse’, ‘equine’ and ‘equestrian’ in the title.” Eskel kicked his boots off and swung his legs up onto the bed, the novel he’d been reading at the end of last winter plucked from the nightstand and dumped in his lap. He was going to have to start again. Something about a sorcerer and a siren, with some murder. He couldn’t remember. The bookmark had fallen out at some point as well.</p><p>“I know you’re big, but isn’t the extra research a bit overkill?” Lambert threw his arms out and tucked them behind his head. So far so good. Maybe he really<em> had </em> just drunk some honey.</p><p>“I would say fuck off, but I’m really looking forward to watching you drop off to sleep like a little kitten.” </p><p>“Not happening.” </p><p>“Care to put your money where your mouth is?”</p><p>Lambert glanced at Eskel with his trademark delinquent smirk. The last time he had entered into a bet at Kaer Morhen, he’d ended up on his hands and knees licking milk from a saucer. It had been one of the single most fucking revolutionary acts of his life. “Terms?” </p><p>“If you fall asleep before Jaskier returns in about an hour and a half, you do everything you are asked to do, including by Vesemir, without snark or sass, for the entire winter. You have to stay in the bed, because I’m not following you around to catch you when you pass out.”</p><p>“So pedestrian. Buttercup would have made me walk around on all fours and bark like a dog with a tail shoved up my ass,” Lambert smirked at the rather perplexed expression on Eskel’s face and then hummed. “Alright, if I stay awake, you will suck my cock on demand for the next week. Doesn’t matter where. Courtyard, springs, kitchen.” He liked the way Eskel’s pupils got a little bigger and his tongue ever so discreetly - or so he thought - touched his lower lip. Always good when your opposition <em> wanted </em> to lose; he might even help. “I’ll stay here, you may even pet me.” <em> Because I want that. Right now.  </em></p><p>“Oh, I may? How very generous,” Eskel smirked. “Done. Come here.” He patted the bed next to him and Lambert pressed himself close, forehead to hip, one leg cocked over Eskel’s nearest. Once he’d settled, Eskel opened his book across his lap and ran his fingers through Lambert’s hair in long, even strokes. The fire crackled away at the other end of the room, the wind howled through the poorly insulated corridors and Eskel pretended to read. In reality, he was playing a masterful game, his own breathing slow and carefully measured, fingers brushing lightly over Lambert’s eyebrows and down his neck, behind his ear and under his chin. All the places that made him drop off to sleep on a <em> standard </em> evening. </p><p>A yawn, and Lambert grunted. “Just… flexing my jaw.”</p><p>“Mmhm.” </p><p>The hour ticked by slowly, and Eskel had managed to finish the first two pages. He saw Lambert fight the encroaching sleep; he tried staring, kneading and clenching at Eskel’s leg, rubbing his eyes and breathing quickly to raise his heart rate. Nothing stemmed the inevitable tide and his eyes kept dropping closed despite his best efforts. No amount of physical discipline or mental fortitude was helping. “Fuck…”</p><p>“It’s alright,” Eskel murmured, rubbing his palm down Lambert’s bicep. “I’ll be right here.”</p><p>“This is… bullshit.” </p><p>“I know. Won’t be forever. We’ll work it out. Promise.”</p><p>“Mmph.” Lambert’s eyes closed and he sank rapidly into deep slumber. Clenched jaw went slack, forehead smoothed over and the grip on Eskel’s leg loosened. Other than the odd snuffle and twitch, he was then perfectly still. Eskel threw his book back on the nightstand and rolled onto his knees to strip Lambert’s trousers, shirt and braies away; his preferred state for sleep. The door scraped open just as Eskel was tucking furs and sheets in place to keep Lambert snug. </p><p>Jaskier backed through with two large books shoved under each arm. He turned around to start speaking and then instantly dropped to a whisper, “It worked then?”</p><p>“Yeah. He’s not happy. But can’t have him blasting you through a wall with Aard.”</p><p>“To use a well-worn phrase - ‘hmm’,” Jaskier padded over and placed his small collection of tomes on the writing desk under the window. “We need a more long term solution. Perhaps I can sleep elsewhere for a few nights and you and Geralt can help him work through.”</p><p>“Did you find what you were looking for?” Eskel ran a final palm over Lambert’s head before he walked over to wrap his arms around Jaskier’s waist, burying his face away in the crook of his neck for a good snuffle of eau d’bard. </p><p>“I did. One whole book on equine gestation, something about natural horsemanship that will be important later, then there’s a smaller one on caring for the mare, and just a really cute story about a young foal who goes on an adventure in Brokilon and meets a puck that I just had to finish. Geralt’s carrying down a few more that looked promising, ah -,” he leaned forward and peeked around Eskel’s arm as the man himself stepped through the door, “over here, my love. I’ll pour over them tomorrow morning.” Geralt dropped the three books in his arms onto the desk, opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again with an audible click.</p><p>Eskel growled, released Jaskier and picked up his half-finished tankard of mead. “Geralt, get your fucking clothes off and into my bed, before I brain you with one of those books.” </p><p>There was a quiet, thoughtful hum behind his back, and then in a deep, gravelly tone. “Yes, daddy.”</p><p>Mead wasn’t meant to be inhaled. Generally not a good idea. But Eskel took in a good lungful and proceeded to choke and wheeze. Through teary eyes, he looked at Geralt with a mixture of shock and awe. The man in question looked far too pleased with himself - small smile, head tilted to the side - as he undid the ties on the front of his shirt and pulled it over his head.</p><p>“Masterful execution, Geralt. Well done.” Jaskier leaned up and placed a kiss on the side of Geralt’s jaw, before sauntering his way past Eskel and giving his rear end a little squeeze. “Oh, you thought that one was staying in the bathhouse, did you? Silly Witcher.”</p><p>Eskel coughed into the back of one hand, the other clutched the side of the desk to keep him upright, and his eyes followed Jaskier to the bed. Geralt, now stripped down to just his braies, stepped up and took his chin for a brief, wet, mead-filled kiss. “Suits you. Might use it more.”</p><p>“Please don’t.” Eskel wheezed, finally finding his voice underneath the layer of honey and spices. Mainly because if Geralt started calling him daddy, he wasn’t sure <em> what the fuck he was supposed to do with that, fucking hell, Jaskier. </em>With some effort, Eskel mustered the coordination to shed his own clothes and fell into the otherside of the bed. Lambert slept soundly, and Jaskier snuggled down between his back and Geralt’s chest. The two older Witchers nestled down like warm, burly bookends and their nest was finally complete. It didn’t take Jaskier long to fall asleep in the restful quiet, and once his soft snuffles and snores accompanied Lambert’s, Eskel finally pressed.</p><p>“Tell me,” he spoke softly. “What’s eating you? Because I’d never seen you happier than you were in Posada. Not for a long time.”</p><p>Geralt cast his eyes down, studying Jaskier and Lambert in passing. “It’s been a shit year, Eskel. Not sure where to start.”</p><p>“How about at the beginning? I’ve got all night.”</p><p>“Hmm.” A pause. “Promise you’ll still be here when I’m finished?” <em> Promise you won’t throw me away in disgust. </em></p><p>“On Jaskier and Lambert, I give you my word.” </p><p>Geralt nodded, took a deep breath and <em> began. </em>He told Eskel everything. About discovering a group called the Salamandra and their plot to invade Kaer Morhen for the Grasses' recipes and the mutagen secrets. Following that trail into Temeria and becoming embroiled in tensions between the Scoia'tael and the Order of the Flaming Rose; Eskel noticed how his hand rose subconsciously to the four scars on his chest as he discussed that particular group, but didn’t push it. He talked about killing one of their leaders to foil the plot and discovering that they had managed to secure one of the potions from somewhere else anyway. He talked about the mutant Knights they created from it, about helping Foltest with his daughter, who had relapsed, and then using the information the old King disclosed to find and kill the leader of the Salamandra. </p><p>He talked about a young lad called Alvin, who was also somehow the leader of the Order - Eskel got completely lost at that point - but the Order was linked to the Salamandra and had been funding them the whole time. Ironic, an Order who hated non-humans helping to create more of them. It went on and on and on, and suddenly Eskel realised the weight of what Geralt had been carrying. The story finally came to an end in the very early hours of the morning, the sun rising over Morhen Valley, with an assassin sent to kill Foltest.</p><p>“A Witcher.” Geralt said, his eyes sad.</p><p>“School?” Eskel understood the pain there. So few Witchers left and Geralt had been forced to kill one to protect the old Temerian King.</p><p>“No medallion,” Geralt sighed. “Fought with twin blades though. A Viper.”</p><p>“<em>Fuck, </em>well, if anyone was going to try and kill a King, then it would be them, wouldn’t it?”</p><p>“There are rumours, Eskel. A plot to kill the Kings of the Northern Kingdoms. Start another war. I’m - I don’t -.”</p><p>“Geralt,” Eskel reached across and found one of the hands that had sprawled across the top of the pillows; they’d sunk slowly deeper into the bed as Geralt had talked through his ‘shit year’, and now they could twine their fingers together. “Forget it for now. You’re here. With us. Whatever waits for you out there, we can deal with it in the spring, alright?”</p><p>“Mm.” Geralt studied Eskel with golden eyes soft and tired in the morning light. His fingers tightened briefly in their laced grip, and with a deep, level sigh, Geralt relaxed into sleep. Eskel held his hand even when it fell slack, grateful that Geralt had managed to find the words, grateful that Geralt had trusted him with at least some of his burden, <em> grateful </em> that he hadn’t lost <em> his </em> Geralt back to the old one who preferred distance to comfort.</p><p>“I’ve got you.” Eskel made the quiet promise to all three of the men before him. Each more precious to him than anything else in this life and the next, and only once he had examined each of them in turn, did he finally settle down to sleep himself.</p><p>***</p><p>Late the following morning, Geralt embraced Jaskier when the bard plonked himself down on the bench in the kitchen and accepted the kiss to his cheek with a small smile. Eskel was not so lucky for he obviously bore responsibility for his horse’s libido and a rather lax stablehand, according to Jaskier. When he reached across the table for the pot of honey, Geralt grabbed it first, dumped the entire contents into his porridge oats, and then placed it back without looking up. Eskel rubbed his eyes. “Is this about Roach? Fine, I shouldn’t have laughed.”</p><p>“Hmm.” Geralt rumbled, noncommittally. </p><p>“And I shouldn’t have - ?” Eskel squinted, looking for a hint.</p><p>“- impugned Roach’s honour.” Jaskier offered around a mouthful of porridge oats and cinnamon, eyebrows raised in expectation. Lambert choked on his mead and then spilled even more when Eskel kicked him under the table. </p><p>“Impugned Roach’s hon-,” Eskel started, incredulous, and then Geralt looked up from his food with <em> his </em> eyebrows raised, and Eskel suddenly felt like the <em> villain </em> of the piece. He sighed, heavily, stirred his unsweetened breakfast and gave in. “Fine. I shouldn’t have impugned her honour.” </p><p>“Hmm.” Geralt replied, more positively. Before he departed out into the courtyard, Geralt paused by Eskel and took him by the chin for a deep, heady kiss, sweetened by <em> too much damned honey</em>, but perfect all the same. And then, whispered quietly against Eskel’s lips beyond the earshot of the others. “We’ve got you too.”</p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Winter Blooms</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>There is a bit of an experiment with "daddy kink" and "spanking" in this chapter. If it's not your thing, stop reading at "With all the excitement surrounding their new arrival..." and resume again at "Jaskier was so enamoured by..." to cut it from your reading experience. It's the only time in the whole fic' as, like all lovers, they're sussing out what they like.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Vesemir’s prediction of a month was generous. Within two weeks Roach was showing signs of labour, and Jaskier stood with the old Witcher in the stable one evening as he inspected her, “She’s moody alright,” Vesemir mumbled as Roach threw her head at him for the third time in ten minutes. “Rear end has dropped, the croup has softened.”</p><p>“So, how long?”</p><p>“Within the week.”</p><p>“And how do we know when she’s started?” Jaskier’s eyes widened, the excitement bubbling away inside his chest made it very difficult to sit still. He’d never actually <em> seen </em> a newly birthed foal. Of course, it had happened on the estate all the time when he was a young boy, but that level of involvement in their equine residents had always been dubbed <em> beneath </em> him. Horses were tools to be used. Leave the stablehands to the actual <em> care. </em> This was a rare and beautiful opportunity.</p><p>“She’ll begin sweating, biting at her sides, and will probably lay down and get up repeatedly.” Vesemir stepped out of the stall and closed the gate behind him with one final pat on Roach's nose. “That means she’s going through contractions.” </p><p>“Vesemir, how on earth do you know all this?”</p><p>“You tend to pick up things when you’ve been around the block as many times as I have,” the old Witcher smirked and gestured for Jaskier to head out into the courtyard. Lambert, Eskel and Geralt had spent the week repairing and reinforcing the stable. It was fine for adult horses, but needed extra insulation and protection to safely house a foal in the dead of winter. Their work had finally met Vesemir’s exacting standards and the Witchers had headed down to the springs an hour ago. “How’re you holding up?”</p><p>“What?” Jaskier blinked, mouth opening and closing as he processed the question. He wasn’t <em> used </em> to Vesemir’s fatherly interest in his well-being. Other than his three adopted disasters, no one really paid much attention to how Jaskier was <em> doing. </em>“Uh, well, fine. Very good, actually. I put that down to your cooking. I always leave Kaer Morhen several pounds heavier than when I arrive.”</p><p>Vesemir laughed and slapped him on the back of the shoulder. “Sorry, lad. I’m used to fattening up emaciated Witchers. Feel free to leave anything you don’t want to eat. I won’t take it personally.” </p><p>“<em>Leave your food? </em>I think not!” </p><p>“Hmm. Well, I will take it as a compliment then.” </p><p>Vesemir was rapidly becoming the father figure that Jaskier had never known he needed. The old Witcher enjoyed showing him parts of their shared world, from alchemy recipes that would help the Witchers while they walked the Path to simple self defence techniques that Jaskier had been eager to absorb. (“You keep getting yourself into trouble, lad, it’s time we taught you to throw a proper punch.”) And his measured, thoughtful company was a momentary reprieve from the intensity of Eskel and Geralt, and the sheer manic energy of Lambert. He loved them dearly, but bloody hell could they be exhausting. He decided now that he also <em> loved </em> Vesemir. For the way he protected and doted on his Witchers - his pups, as he called them - and for the way he accepted Jaskier so effortlessly into his pack, with warm embraces and genuine affection. Jaskier was not <em> tolerated </em> at Kaer Morhen; he was welcomed with open arms.</p><p>They walked in together. Vesemir headed straight down to the kitchen and dispatched Jaskier to hurry the other three along, probably knowing <em> full well </em> what three amorous, naked Witchers were likely to be indulging in after a hard day’s labour. He wasn’t wrong. Unfortunately, Jaskier appeared to have arrived after the finale, because Eskel was wrecked, arms sprawled out over the edges of the spring and head tilted back; Geralt looked extremely pleased with himself as he stroked his hands through damp, black hair, and Lambert lounged at Eskel’s side, <em> admiring.  </em></p><p>“I hope you have ample energy for a second round,” Jaskier folded his arms, one eyebrow cocked. “You have all the fun without me.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt grinned, leaned across to press one more kiss to Eskel’s bite-mottled throat, and stepped out of the springs to pull his disgruntled bard into an embrace. “Only some.” </p><p>“Well -,” Jaskier began, but was quickly distracted by <em> all </em> of Geralt pressed against him, and he grabbed himself a handful of tight backside as the Witcher hugged him close. <em> No. </em> The novelty would never, <em> ever </em> wear off. He had watched that backside for over two decades - on a horse, flex during battle, bent over a bath, <em> dear Melitele - </em> without being able to touch, and now he was going to grab it every <em> damn </em> time it got close enough. He must have been kneading a little too pointedly, because Geralt chuckled and nudged him away.</p><p>“After dinner, little lark,” he picked up a towel from the bench nearby and began to rub it down over his chest. “What did Vesemir say about Roach?”</p><p>“He’s given her a week at most.”</p><p>Eskel finally stirred with a quiet huff. “Suppose you’re taking your bedroll out there tonight, then?”</p><p>Geralt nodded, but Jaskier blustered. “No, you can’t possibly, there’s - you - it’s cold!”  He received one of those small smiles but no reply. There was no winning this one. “Fine, but I swear, I’m not warming up your cold-bloody-feet when you come in for breakfast. Anyway, hurry up, dinner’s ready.” And off he flounced, indignant that he should lose even one of his Witchers during the winter months when they were meant to be unequivocally <em> his </em> to enjoy.</p><p>“He’s going to sulk all night now,” Eskel grumbled, taking a towel for himself and chucking one at Lambert.</p><p>“I’m sure you can think of a few ways to distract him.” Geralt smirked and didn’t bother to disguise the final, indulgent appraisal of Eskel’s body he conducted before pulling his clothes on. <em> Later. </em> Once he was certain Roach was safe and comfortable. They had <em> all </em> winter.</p><p>***</p><p>“It’s coming! She’s - !” It was mid-afternoon three days later when Jaskier practically fell down the final steps into the kitchen. Lambert and Eskel were cutting, sorting and prepping herbs and looked up simultaneously as the bard stumbled against the edge of the table. “Come, quickly. It’s - oh, she’s -.”</p><p>Eskel grinned and tugged Lambert by the elbow when he didn’t move from his task, “Oh, come on, it’s going to be disgusting, I really don’t -,” Lambert saw the excited glow in Jaskier’s eyes and huffed a resigned sigh. “Fine.”</p><p>Roach was lying on her side in her stall when they arrived. She had exhibited clear signs of distress when they tried to take her out of a place with which she was comfortable and familiar, and so the plan to keep her in the castle was abandoned. Geralt sat with her head over his lap, stroking a hand down her face every time she rested for a moment, murmuring gentle encouragements and reassurances. Vesemir crouched down at her rear with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his trousers soaked at the knees where her sac had burst. They had been there for a couple of hours while Roach rolled, stood, sprawled out, and then finally settled on her side once her foal was positioned. Delivery was well under way.</p><p>Jaskier went a bit green around the gills and Lambert snickered, rubbing him on the back when he gagged. “Feeling a bit delicate there, Buttercup?”</p><p>“No, absolutely - hnfg - absolutely fine,” Jaskier pressed a hand over his mouth, swivelled and retched towards the stable doors. Nothing produced; more of a dry heave as he tried to keep his stomach under control. It was the hangover from the night before. He’d been stupid enough to play strip Gwent with Lambert, and once they were both naked the forfeits had become alcoholic. <em> Never </em> drink with Witchers, dear reader. <em> Never. </em>Lambert had been absolutely merciless.</p><p>“Stay back a bit, don’t stress her.” Vesemir called over his shoulder without looking back, and then tilted his head as he spied the first small hoof. “It’s the right way up. Good girl, Roach. Good girl.”</p><p>“Hnfgh - that’s a nose - hfnn - right?” Jaskier was definitely trying to watch, but his gut was hating him for it. </p><p>“Membrane’s white. That’s a good girl.” Vesemir spoke gently, and Geralt leaned back as Roach tossed her head with a pained grunt. “Keep going, keep pushing.” The birth was relatively quick; Jaskier knew from his reading that this was a good thing. Hooves and nose were followed quickly by neck, shoulders and hindquarters. The foal poured out onto the stable floor and immediately kicked free of its fetal membrane. Vesemir leaned over only to check that its nose and mouth were clear, before Roach rolled up onto her front to nose at the new arrival curiously. “Be ready to grab her just in case, Geralt. Looks like we’ve got a little son here too.” </p><p>Jaskier didn’t think he had <em> ever </em> loved anything so <em> thoroughly </em> and <em> instantly </em>as he did the tiny, beautiful creature currently panting on the stable floor. His body was a dark bay, broken only by a white star in the centre of his forehead; his legs faded to black from the shoulders downwards, and his mane was pure obsidian. A perfect combination of his mother and father. Smaller than expected, certainly, and shivering, but otherwise healthy and bright. Scorpion nickered and hung over the stall with interest; the tether attached to his halter prevented him from nosing too close. Eskel moved over to him, but Vesemir held up a hand, “It’s alright, he’s just checkin’ it’s his.”</p><p>Roach collected her legs towards her, eyes alert, and began to lick her baby. <em> Accepted. </em> Geralt rested his forehead briefly against her neck before he moved out of her way. He and Vesemir cleared as much of the soiled hay as they could around the foal, and threw more in to replace it. Only then did Geralt take a moment to actually <em> look. </em> When his gaze fell on the tiny animal at Roach’s side Jaskier could see the awe, the desire to hold, the instantaneous <em> love </em> swell in Geralt’s eyes and it darn near melted his own heart into putty. When Geralt allowed his heart to the surface it changed his entire face; eyes transformed to a warm gold, brow smooth and smile soft. The <em> real </em> Geralt. Eskel was staring at him rather than the new arrival, and Jaskier exchanged a knowing glance with Lambert.</p><p>“Did you decide on a name?” Geralt looked at Jaskier suddenly, his pupils still wide.</p><p>“Oh, well - me? I mean, shouldn’t you and Eskel - I -,” Jaskier gazed down at the little foal once more, blue eyes wide and soft. “There isn’t a name on the Continent that could define something so precious.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Lambert stepped up onto a crate and peered over. He glanced between Jaskier and the foal several times, tapped his fingers against the top of the stall, and then finally, with a deep breath. “Dandelion.” </p><p>“What?” Jaskier blinked.</p><p>“Buttercup,” Lambert indicated the bard. “Meet Dandelion.” He gestured lazily back into the stall. “Weedy as fuck, but if it’s anything like its parents, then it’ll be a vicious little shit with buckets of attitude. And -,” he paused, becoming briefly aware that Vesemir, Eskel and Geralt were all looking at him, slightly bewildered, “- well, Geralt, you said it was going to be Jaskier’s horse, right? So, two pretty weeds. Cute looking, but vicious as fuck if you piss them off.” Eskel grinned at Lambert. There was that huge well of affection again, cracked open every time Lambert exercised his soft side, and Eskel revelled in it. </p><p>“You said - ?” Jaskier squeaked. He did not <em> speak </em> anymore. <em> Speaking </em> was something that people with two feet on the earth did; he was currently floating up somewhere in the clouds. “- for me?”</p><p>Geralt glared at Lambert with narrowed eyes - they’d discussed it in the baths together and agreed it was the perfect gift for Jaskier, who had never really had a horse of his own - and then grunted. “Yes. We -,” he glanced at Eskel who nodded, “- agreed that he should be yours. Do you like Dandelion - for a name?”</p><p>“<em>Yes. </em> It’s perfect.” Jaskier was <em> not </em> crying. It was cold. The cold made his eyes water and his nose stuffy. “Hello there, Dandelion.”</p><p>***</p><p>It was important that Roach was given time to bond with her baby, and so for the first few days only Geralt and Vesemir popped in to check on her. There were a couple of disgusting milestones both mare and foal had to reach to be considered healthy and, according to Vesemir, both passed with flying colours.  </p><p>Geralt was absolutely smitten. He brushed Roach every single day and slowly introduced himself to her foal; Dandelion sniffed the brush when he offered it down, covered in the scent of his mother, and nosed curiously at Geralt’s knees and boots as he stood in the stall. It didn’t take long until the little beast was bouncing around Geralt unabashedly, only standing still when the Witcher knelt down and wrapped big arms around his neck, palms sweeping over soft fur. </p><p>Jaskier was no better. He spent a good few hours each day in the stable; singing, and telling stories. Roach enjoyed his company and the foal quickly became accustomed to his presence too. He sat on top of the stall wall now as Geralt finished brushing down his mare’s coat and closed the gate carefully behind him. The gate rattled in its hinges as she kicked it with a front leg, and Geralt smirked as he lowered the bucket of oats before her nose. “Are all new mothers this demanding?”</p><p>“You have no idea.” Jaskier grinned, and then turned to watch the foal bounce to and fro. “Oh, sweet Dandelion, when you are all grown we shall travel the Continent together, a troubadour and his faithful stallion,” he leaned back against the stable wall, hand sweeping through the air. “As noble and brave as your father, as fierce and loyal as your mother. They - well, I - will write songs about you.” The foal blinked up at him, ears swivelling, before it hopped over to Roach’s belly and nosed its way underneath to suckle. “Geralt, this is possibly the most beautiful thing you’ve ever given me. Other than your cock, and your lips, and, well, come to think of it - oh.”</p><p>As he swivelled on the edge of the stall to climb down, Geralt’s chest pressed between his legs and he craned up for a kiss. Jaskier took his face in both hands and leaned over him to take those plush lips that had been permanently tilted in a soft smile in the last few days. Their tongues pressed together in a now familiar, warm embrace, and Jaskier sighed contentedly when he pulled away, smiling.</p><p>“What?” Geralt looked up with raised eyebrows, amused.</p><p>“Oh, I just - you’re going to call it poetic tripe, but -,” he grinned and sat up to run a finger over the seam of Geralt’s lips, dropping to his lower when the Witcher smiled into the contact, “I always feel like, when I kiss you and Eskel, I am kissing two halves of a whole. Not that there’s ever something missing, but I can feel you in him, and he in you. It’s… I find it staggeringly beautiful.” </p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt’s smile grew a little bigger; it appeared he was rather fond of the idea. “Eskel is… I’m -,” he paused, and Jaskier watched his eyes flicker to and fro as if he were putting together and reading a set of notes inside his mind to prepare, “He’s my lighthouse whenever I’m adrift in a storm. I would be incomplete without him.” Geralt didn’t understand the gravity of his words, probably didn’t even know where his analogy came from, and Jaskier wasn’t even sure how to broach the subject, instead, he just bathed in Geralt’s carefully constructed declaration of love and stroked his fingers across a pale cheek. “And you,” Geralt raised an eyebrow, “fuck, and Lambert. When did that happen?”</p><p>Jaskier laughed. “Oh, dear heart, you’ve always loved Lambert. You’re just now inside his spines and enjoying the soft, squishy centre he has to offer.” Slender fingers combed through Geralt’s hair. The shorter cut had been <em> nice</em>, but his snowy locks were now all back and Jaskier realised he definitely preferred their presence. “Next year, I have a few bits and pieces to take care of but perhaps we could travel together a little, now that you’re not in Nilfgaard. Only if you want to, of course.”</p><p>Warm palms slid up Jaskier’s thighs and hips, settling at his waist. “I’d like that very much.”</p><p>Jaskier grinned and allowed himself to be scooped from the edge of the stall. Wrapped around Geralt’s broad chest, he kissed his Witcher all the way through the courtyard and into the grand hall. Geralt was just grateful he knew every damned stone, step and crevice of Kaer Morhen so didn’t have to pull away once to check where he was going.</p><p>***</p><p>With all the excitement surrounding their new arrival, Eskel believed he was now off the hook. For his dishonourable conduct towards Roach. For his slip up in the bathhouse. And Lambert was <em>actually</em> <em>obedient.</em> Granted. He did seem to be following orders to the point of obscenity; the first time Vesemir had asked him to do the laundry - Lambert’s most despised chore - it had ended up billowing from the highest turret of Kaer Morhen to dry. The old wolf hadn’t been impressed when he’d spotted his braies fluttering from the battlements like a patchy standard.</p><p>Eskel growled and pinched the bridge of his nose after Vesemir barked at him to get it sorted. “Lambert, get his fucking underwear down.”</p><p>Lambert raised an eyebrow, sensed his opportunity, and pressed up to Eskel’s back to drawl in his ear. “Whatever you say, daddy.” The sultry growl pooled in the bottom of Eskel’s stomach and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Before he could react, Lambert ran by and leapt at the craggy stones of keep, scrambling quickly out of sight. Eskel swallowed hard, adjusted his belt and headed inside to help Vesemir prepare for dinner. </p><p>
  <em> They’ll get bored. Just don’t react.  </em>
</p><p>Once Vesemir headed off to bed, the evening devolved into moonshine and Gwent as it usually did. Geralt was in good form and Eskel lost a handful of Crowns within the first hour, so Jaskier set his lute to one side and slipped into Eskel’s lap to offer assistance. “You’ll want to play your kayran now,” he tapped the card in Eskel’s fingers, “That will put him in serious trouble. And then play…” The problem - well, not really a <em> problem </em> - was that every time Jaskier hemmed Geralt into a corner or executed a perfectly orchestrated stratagem, he shimmied that tight ass of his across Eskel’s lap and leaned back to plant kisses on whatever part of Eskel’s face he could reach. </p><p>The bard knew what he was doing. Eskel’s <em>interest</em> pressed up against his rear and those little shimmies became more salacious gyrations as the games continued. He took the cards from the Witcher’s hands and spread his thighs as he leaned forward, presenting his backside for Eskel’s attention and pressing his groin now into his lap. “Now, Geralt, I know your usual play. Are you going to change it up, dear heart?” Jaskier purred, watching his white-haired paramour through lidded eyes. Firm thumbs kneaded into the globes of his ass, and Jaskier ground himself down into Eskel’s thighs, stimulating his own erection against firm, ungiving muscles, until Eskel spread his legs and fondled Jaskier’s cock through the material of his breeches. The bard bit his lower lip, and leaned on his elbows as he rocked into Eskel’s hand; he caught Lambert’s eye and flashed him a brief, mischievous smile. Their joint <em>project </em>was about to come to fruition. Hopefully.</p><p>Eskel’s cock was hard and hot even through the material of his trousers, and Jaskier let out a breathy, appreciative moan. “Ooh, daddy, yes, <em> please.</em>”</p><p><em> Fuck. </em> Eskel sat up straight with clenched teeth. He glared at Lambert's smug grin and his hand tightened on Jaskier’s cock without thinking; the bard moaned again, allowing his cards to fall from his hands as he cast a prurient glance over his shoulder. It really <em> shouldn’t </em> be having the impact it was, but it was the way they <em> fucking said it. </em>Eskel growled, “Are you both going to be brats about this all winter?”</p><p>“Perhaps you should enact some discipline.” Geralt rumbled thoughtfully, gathering his cards up into a neat pile; he had decided at the start of this winter that he would be Jaskier’s loyal accomplice in undoing Eskel at every available opportunity. He turned to look at Lambert, whose smirk was now somewhat muted beneath the weight of his gaze. </p><p>“Discipline?” Eskel raised an eyebrow, grip still firm on Jaskier’s crotch. The bard was panting now, damp lips parted as he watched Geralt with wide eyes.</p><p>“Mmhm,” Geralt was still watching Lambert who was now busy collecting the deck scattered over the table, trying to be as uninteresting as he possibly could. “No need for a belt. Just a hand. I imagine Jaskier’s ass pinks up quite nicely.” </p><p>"Gods, <em> yes,</em>" Jaskier gasped. “Please, please, <em> please. </em> ” His nails dug into the wood of the table and he rocked his hips once more to antagonise Eskel into action. “Unless you want me to continue being bratty. Because I can be <em> very </em> bratty, daddy.”</p><p>There was no avoiding this, and Jaskier clearly wanted it. His face was flush, his eyes hazy and his cock hard against Eskel’s legs. Who was he to deny his feral cat? Eskel grunted, took Jaskier by the back of his doublet and hauled him off and onto his feet, “Breeches and braies down.” Shaky fingers leapt to obey, and Jaskier’s breeches slid down his toned thighs to pool at his knees, the hem of his chemise slanted over his full cock and Eskel took a moment to admire the cheeky tongue that darted out over parted lips. <em> He looked ready to peak already. </em> “Bend over my lap.”</p><p>Jaskier lowered his stomach over Eskel’s thighs and gasped when the sensitive head of his cock caught on the edge of the chair, and then again when Eskel’s hand grasped the back of his neck, firm but not aggressive. His other palm stroked slowly across one cheek, a gentle caress that made Jaskier tingle in anticipation. He squirmed and then froze rigid when Eskel’s grip tightened and  the warmth of his other palm disappeared completely.</p><p>The first blow landed without warning and Jaskier squeaked, eyes screwing shut as the sting was instantly soothed by another gentle caress. The pressure was relatively soft - Eskel was testing his lover’s tolerance and his own strength - so Jaskier didn’t hurry him. It was more delicious this way. He tested different angles, different locations, palm versus fingers, cupped versus flat, attentive to Jaskier’s reaction each time. And watching Geralt and Lambert from the corner of his eye, their gaze heavy, just made it even sweeter. </p><p>“Don’t think your poor behaviour has gone unnoticed, little wolf. Come here.” Geralt growled, and Lambert looked at him with wide eyes, his hand dropping away instantly from where it was beginning to wander closer to his own cock because <em> fuck, </em> this was too good. Lambert glanced at Jaskier - who squeaked again when Eskel landed another upward slap to his ass - and hesitated. </p><p>“Oh, I know you need a different sort of discipline. Do as you’re told. Sit here.” Geralt indicated his lap, and Lambert, drawn by the command and the promise of Geralt’s attention, sidled across the bench and seated himself tentatively across the Wolf’s thighs. “Hands on the table, both of them,” his order obeyed, “don’t make a single sound, you watch it all, and don’t move.” Lambert could do that. Easy. <em> Or not. </em> Geralt wasn’t going to make it easy <em> at all</em>. He pulled Lambert’s hips back and ran his hands beneath his shirt; callused fingers tweaked his nipples and blunt nails raked down his ribs; Lambert’s own were soon biting into the wood of the table as warm palms lazily explored every inch of his torso. When Geralt’s hands reached his thighs, Lambert was sure he was going to get some relief, but Geralt only kneaded taut muscles and moved back to his waist. The fact that Buttercup looked about ready to come made it even fucking <em> worse. </em> Or better? <em> Fuck. </em>His brain was sparking out.</p><p>Jaskier could <em> feel </em> the surface of his ass turning red. Every strike prickled through his entire body, and he knew Eskel would feel the heat under his palm when it settled to soothe the sting. At first he clung onto Eskel’s calf, gritting his teeth and grinding himself forward, but as the sensation intensified he fell limp and moaned loudly when one big hand squeezed his abused ass cheek. “Fuck, <em> yes</em>. Please <em> more. </em> ” Another firm squeeze, and then Eskel’s fingers pushed down the cleft of his ass, smoothing right down over his entrance and massaging the sensitive point behind his balls. “<em>Fuck.</em>” </p><p>“Bit of a mouth on you today, Jaskier.” Eskel purred with a wry smirk before he looked across to the two opposite, Lambert was desperately biting back his noise, teeth clenched and eyes desperate. Geralt was enjoying the twitch and flex of each of the muscles he teased, returning now and then to his chest, the inside of his thighs, the top of his ass; his eyes lifted from Lambert eventually and Eskel flicked his head towards the staircase. <em> Hell, </em>he’d bend Jaskier over the table now but without oil he was liable to split the bard in half. Geralt nodded in agreement and wordlessly rose to his feet, seizing Lambert by the scruff of his neck to push him across the hall.  Eskel threw Jaskier over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, hand still smoothing over the burning globes of his ass, and followed closely behind.</p><p>When he was finally thrown onto Eskel’s bed, Jaskier could only sprawl there for a long moment, still fully invested in the warm burn consuming his backside. The others moved around him - the sound of Lambert’s quiet whimpers as Geralt finally gave him permission to make noise, the quiet rustle of bags and the grate of sliding drawers - and then Eskel was tugging his breeches off the rest of the way. Jaskier moved to his knees only when Geralt and Lambert were completely naked before him. Geralt pushed Lambert onto his back and pressed between his thighs, occupying his mouth in a deep and demanding kiss as he dropped a slick hand between them. </p><p>Jaskier was so enamoured by the shocked bliss on Lambert’s face that he gasped in surprise when warm oil pooled at his tailbone, left to dribble slowly down the cleft of his ass. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the viscous liquid dripping from the side of Eskel’s palm and - oh <em> fuck </em> why was Eskel so godly when he was naked? Carved out of the side of the Blue Mountains, honed in the workshops of Kreve himself, and then set forth onto the world to make Jaskier drool like a disciple of <em> Huldra. </em> His huge cock stood up over his stomach, purple and almost <em> angry</em>, angry with Jaskier for teasing it so much, no doubt. The bard bit his lower lip and knelt up to yank his doublet and chemise over his head. Eskel shoved him forward again and Jaskier rocked back into the thick fingers that massaged his entrance, snarling as they pressed inside and stretched him open. </p><p>Geralt pushed Lambert a little further onto the mattress, until Jaskier was grinning down from directly above his face, and gripped the backs of his thighs to spread him open, thumbs pressing in behind his knees. His hole was slick and stretched just enough and Geralt tilted his head to the side with a small smile as his lover squirmed and growled at him. He purred right back, “Gunna’ fuck you nice and hard, little wolf. Might knock your attitude loose.” </p><p>“Don’t fl - <em> fuck</em>,” Lambert arched off the bed as Geralt notched his head just inside his rim, and then dissolved into a deep moan as he rocked backwards and forwards tugging himself loose and pushing back in a mere inch. The stretch was already immense and Lambert bucked into it desperately, barely able to move with his thighs pinned back so far. “<em>Geralt </em> , fuck s-s-s -.” Cut off by Jaskier’s mouth. Buttercup leaned down and sucked his lower lip, tongue pushing in and Lambert hadn’t realised how much he needed upside down kisses in his life. But he did. Forever. Geralt finally began to ease further, forcing Lambert’s hips to cant to the angle he liked with more pressure on his legs. There was little difference between Eskel and Geralt in terms of <em> gifts </em> and Lambert could barely breathe as Geralt fucked deep into his ass, slow and measured at first, head thrown back to enjoy the heat and the stretch. Geralt leaned forward when he was flush to the hilt to kiss Jaskier as he scrambled closer, and Lambert took the opportunity to grab the bard’s thighs and tug them until they straddled his head, fingers kneading at toned muscles. He got to see the moment Eskel pushed inside; the slow, graceful rock of his hips that slid his thick member in deeper until his balls pressed to the back of Jaskier’s, bunched tight against his body. </p><p>Likely to get knocked out by the fast, forceful movements of Geralt’s hips, Jaskier couldn’t take Lambert’s cock in his mouth as he wanted, so dropped onto his elbow and wrapped his hand around it instead, watching with misty eyes as Lambert’s ass sucked on Geralt’s cock with each withdrawal and stretched around it with each punishing thrust. He knew how tight that ass was, and when he tilted his head to the side Geralt was just as wrecked as he expected, lower lip between his teeth, pupils blown wide. Eskel was setting his own rhythm, deep and constant, his hips slapping against the abused heat of Jaskier’s ass and stretching him wide on his beautiful cock. It felt so <em>good.</em> So <em>consuming.</em> The moment Jaskier felt Lambert’s lips on the head of his own prick, he choked out another moan and lost himself to the haze of bliss.</p><p>There was no shame in coming first when your lovers were Witchers and Jaskier happily leapt off that proverbial precipice with his arms thrown wide, spilling while he was deep in Lambert’s throat. Geralt gripped a handful of his hair and arched him back for a kiss, but all Jaskier could do was moan wetly into the Witcher’s mouth as Eskel continued to drive into him. The scent and taste of Jaskier’s release was intoxicating and Lambert came with a low growl, panting and whimpering as Geralt ground in deep to enjoy the clench of his ass through the tremors of his orgasm. </p><p>Jaskier’s thighs shook as Eskel chased his release, still relentless, and gripped onto Lambert beneath him, his only anchor to reality. The moment the heat of Eskel’s climax bloomed through his ass, Jaskier gasped against the sweat- and come-sheened skin of Lambert's stomach, and then watched Geralt’s hips stutter as the sight of Eskel arched, his head thrown back, pulled him over too. <em> Two halves of a whole. </em> Jaskier smiled inanely and flopped onto the mattress in a boneless heap when Eskel removed his cock and his hands. The bard reached out to tickle his fingers over Lambert’s hip, and the Witcher looked at him with a rather <em> drunk </em> grin. Geralt and Eskel gravitated together and Jaskier watched the deep, lazy kiss they exchanged at the end of the bed. Eskel kneaded at Geralt’s waist and scented the crook of his neck as their bodies slid together in search of the final, heady high of <em>each other</em>. “Hear my soul speak, the very instant that I saw you did my heart fly to your service.” He whispered against the blankets, and felt Lambert’s fingers bind through his.</p><p>Jaskier must have dozed off in his post-coital bliss, because the next time he acknowledged his surroundings, he was clean and sprawled under the comfortable weight of furs and one of Lambert’s arms. Eskel sat up reading, and Geralt was wrapped around Lambert’s back, his eyes half closed as they studied Jaskier from higher up on the pillow. He spoke softly, “Love you, little lark.”</p><p>Jaskier grinned sleepily. “Love you too, wolf.” </p><p>***</p><p>The end of winter was always painful. Vesemir watched them leave for the trail from the gate, bidding each of his son’s farewell with a final grasp of the forearm and a slap on the back of the shoulder. His touches lingered, his grip firmer, and Jaskier knew it was because he was imprinting them in his mind <em> just in case. </em> Vesemir had lost many, <em> many </em> friends, <em> family</em>. These three - well, now four, Jaskier counting - were all he had left. <em> Make sure you come back next winter. </em> Geralt had to leave Roach behind with her foal; it would take her a good six months, if not more, to wean it, and so he bid his faithful mare a solemn farewell the evening before and Vesemir promised to keep her safe and well.</p><p>The four of them descended the trail together; laughing, talking and sleeping in a warm pile at night. They spent their last few evenings memorising the maps of each other’s faces with gentle caresses and soft kisses. When they reached Vespaden, it was time to split up. Lambert left first - he hunted Kaedwen and Aedirn - and they bundled him into the middle of a tight embrace, nervous that he was now heading back out on his own for the first time since his assault, “For fuck’s sake, I can’t fucking breathe!” He complained, but Jaskier could feel him melt under the nuzzles and kisses, and they watched after him for some time as he disappeared into the treeline of a nearby woodland. He would be fine. Lambert was a bloody <em> brilliant </em> Witcher. </p><p>Geralt was next. He left them after the Buina Pass. Eskel pinned him to a rocky outcrop for at least five minutes and Geralt let him, running his hands through his hair and kissing the scars on his face, his lips, his neck, until Eskel had his fill. And then he too vanished into the wilderness. Jaskier walked with Eskel as far as Tretogor, spent one final night wrapped in his arms, and then watched him ride through the city gates in search of evil to vanquish early the next morning.</p><p>Jaskier’s heart was heavy, but he couldn’t keep his Witchers penned in with him before they were ready; they were wild, adventurous creatures that needed to be allowed to roam free and unrestrained. Even Eskel, the quietest and most reserved of the three, grew restless as winter came to an end. They may be ready. One day. “‘Til next time, my dear wolves.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Spring Swing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Well, this was <em> bad. </em></p><p>It hadn’t even taken a <em> month </em> for everything to go to <em> shit. </em> Jaskier felt like he had whiplash; one moment he was in a warm pile of Witchers in Kaer Morhen, and the next he was embroiled in more political intrigue than he knew what to do with.  Two murdered Kings in the northern kingdoms, open civil war in Temeria and one threatening in Kaedwen. He longed to flee back to the Witchers’ keep; Vesemir would be waiting with stew and fresh vegetables from his garden, he could play with Dandelion and while away the days playing on his lute. One could dream.</p><p>And then there was Jaskier’s <em> current </em> predicament...</p><p>The  trapdoor underneath him creaked ominously and the rope around his neck bit into his skin when he tried to bend over and inspect his feet. He tugged at his hands again, but they were bound tightly. "Rope, always rope." He growled, and gazed solemnly over the heads of the baying crowd in front of him, finally settling on the black-bagged face of the executioner. He glanced at the dwarf next to him. “I’m Jaskier. What’re you here for?”</p><p>“Zoltan,” the dwarf heaved a sigh and cast him a quick glance. “Collusion with the Scoia'tael. You set a tower on fire and fucked some twins, right?”</p><p>“The tower, yes. And if I’d had sex with twins in the last twenty-four hours, at least I could die a happy man.” Jaskier tilted his head back with a quiet groan, and the dwarf just <em> laughed</em>. Gallows humour - harr-harr.</p><p>
  <em> Debauchery. </em>
</p><p>The citizens of Flotsam were going to hang him for <em> debauchery. </em> Just one little incident involving twins at the local brothel, a town guard, a dog, a cat, and an oil lamp. He hadn't even been there for <em> that. </em> They had intelligence he needed, and the brothel where they worked was the safest place and it had… escalated. Because, obviously, upon the assassination of King Foltest barely a month prior, Jaskier had waded back into espionage. Reluctantly. And not for the Redanians. But there was only so long one could remain indifferent in the face of things, and Jaskier had decided he could not stand by and watch history unfold before his eyes. So the Temerians, with their murdered king and their civil war, had gratefully accepted his aid. Well, Vernon Roche had made him an informer and Jaskier was <em> very good </em> at finding information. So it was a match made in convenience, if not in heaven.</p><p>For one, he now believed he knew the identity, the whereabouts and the affiliates of the Kingslayer. Helpful intel. If he survived. It felt unlikely. Jaskier looked to the executioner, “Come on now, <em> debauchery </em> isn’t even a real crime. We’re not in <em> Nilfgaard. </em>” The executioner grunted at him and Jaskier tilted his head to utter one last prayer - Freya, Melitele, Kreve, Huldra, he really didn’t care - he needed a miracle.</p><p>And <em> there it was. </em></p><p>His salvation.</p><p>A flash of white hair moving through the crowd as broad shoulders shoved people out of the way. “Geralt?” Jaskier blinked. <em> By the gods, it was. </em> The bard opened his mouth again, then groaned inwardly - yes, Geralt was going to <em> rescue </em> him. Just like old times. Oh, how agonising. And - oh - Roche. Roche was with him, and Triss Merigold. This was all very embarrassing, wasn’t it? He watched the Witcher square up to the guard at the foot of the scaffold, who proceeded to spew a litany of racial hatred and <em> then </em> informed Geralt that his friends were to be hanged for Scoia'tael sympathies and <em> debauchery. </em> </p><p>The <em> look </em> Geralt gave Jaskier shattered his heart into pieces. </p><p>To outsiders it would have been perfectly blank, but Jaskier could see the huge gaping wound ripped in the Witcher’s heart through pools of gold. Even as the guard continued to goad him, exchanging insults with a woman over Geralt’s shoulder, the Witcher continued to stare at his bard, and Jaskier could <em> hear </em> the silent plea. <em> Tell me it’s not true. </em> The moment his expression faded to resignation was the worst part of it all. The internal conversation had run itself around inside Geralt’s head and <em> concluded</em>. Jaskier felt the burn of <em> that </em> guilty verdict more than the one from the courtroom this morning.</p><p>And then the Witcher sprang into action; unleashed by the paralysing sorrow of Jaskier’s perceived betrayal. Geralt dispatched the guard with two punches and a <em> stamp </em> on his chest. Uncharacteristically savage. (“No bloodshed, Geralt.” Roche said.) In the melee, the executioner had already <em> executed </em> one of the elven thieves on the scaffold next to Zoltan and was now reaching for the lever next to the dwarf. The Witcher leapt up onto the platform and made his offer; let my friends go, and there’ll be no more trouble. <em> And the executioner didn’t take it. </em> Jaskier <em> felt </em> the teeth break from the man's jaw as Geralt landed the first punch, and other Flotsam militia were quickly assembling. <em> Well, this was going to hell in a handbasket.  </em></p><p>Clearly the gods were not quite finished with Jaskier yet, because they sent along another little miracle. Granted, this one was not <em> nearly </em> quite as… <em> pretty</em>. Loredo, the appointed <em> leader </em> of this certified <em> shithole </em> appeared just when he was actually needed and stepped out of the jeering crowd and bellowed at his lieutenant. “A few ploughin’ bandits and you can’t even hang them!”</p><p>Loredo was fat, bald and <em> ugly</em>, with large, jug-like ears and protruding belly framed most grotesquely by his belt. He jabbed a finger up at Geralt. “And you! Stay calm - hands off your swords!” Geralt folded his arms, and Loredo continued. “Our scaffold embraces speeches and hangings. Which will it be?”</p><p>“Are you in command here?” Geralt growled.</p><p>“Forgive me! Bernard Loredo, Commander of Port Flotsam! Yes, I rule this<em> brothel…</em>” He leered. Jaskier thought his choice of vocabulary was too <em> tame. </em></p><p>“Your people started it. Short fuses, some of them.” The guard rolled onto his front with a groan, clearly <em> disagreeing </em> with Geralt’s assessment. </p><p>“What do I care? They started, but <em> you </em> finished.” Loredo was climbing onto the scaffold now, eyeing the prisoners and Geralt with distaste.</p><p>“I had to defend my friends. Will you release them?” The Witcher indicated Jaskier and Zoltan behind him with a flick of his hand.</p><p>“Terrible choice of friends, Witcher. I’d rather give you a thief - relax, I’m joking,” Loredo turned and pulled the lever next to the remaining elf, her neck snapped in the rope as she fell through the trapdoor, killing her instantly. “I hate thieves.” He straightened up with a shit-eating grin. “We can put on another show - bloody and serious this time, mind you - or we can come to an understanding.”</p><p>Displays of needless, flagrant bloodshed were the easiest way to earn a sword through the gut when it came to dealing with Geralt. In fact, Jaskier wagered the Witcher was going through all the swiftest ways he could possibly end Loredo’s life underneath that veneer of disgruntled calm. “Meaning?” A low growl.</p><p>Loredo leaned in. “Give me a minute, Witcher.” And with that, he turned to his crowd and talked them down with a rousing speech about using newly sourced armaments to rise up in revenge for their slain king and made Geralt promise to visit him later. No doubt for repayment. Jaskier garbled his thanks as Geralt cut him free, but the Witcher wasn’t <em> looking </em> at him, instead Geralt turned to Zoltan and slapped him on the back of the shoulder in greeting.The dwarf suggested a tavern and Jaskier rubbed his wrists as he followed along behind.</p><p>***</p><p>By the evening, Jaskier had his belongings back and a meal in his stomach. His lute had seen better days; the gaol guards hadn’t treated it with the care and dignity it deserved and he spotted no less than five chips to its bodywork. Zoltan and Geralt clearly knew each other, and they spoke at great length about Zoltan’s cancelled marriage; his father-in-law to be had an issue with rumours that Zoltan had joined a rebel group in Vizima, “Dwarves should be miners, not seeking glory on the battlefield. Well, fuck ‘im.” </p><p>Triss was next. She updated them on a meeting between the nobles of Temeria outside the walls of La Valette Castle - Geralt had been in prison at the time - where they had attempted to choose a successor. Several duels and a couple of poisonings later, they were no closer to bringing stability. There were multiple factions. Civil war was imminent. The only stabilising force was a heroic commander who had fought at the Battle of Brenna during the previous war; John Natalis. A peacekeeper and military leader, but unwilling to rule himself. Throughout the conversation, Geralt only swirled his mead around and kept glancing at Jaskier; studying, weighing up, clearly wanting to <em> ask </em> something he could not in front of polite company.</p><p>And Jaskier just wanted to get up on the table and scream his loyalty.</p><p>But eventually, it was his turn to report in, and the others listened intently. He had little more to add on top of what Triss had said, apart from some information on the Kingslayer himself. He was in cahoots with a Scoia'tael commander, and Jaskier was also in possession of some dispatches written in <em> Nilfgaardian </em> discussing the opportunities provided by civil war in the northern kingdoms; he passed these across to Roche. “Oh, and the Kingslayer is -.”</p><p>“Letho of Gulet,” Geralt grated out and Jaskier looked at him with surprise. “I’m going to bed. Wake me if you need me.” And with that, the Witcher stomped his way upstairs. Zoltan offered Jaskier a round of Gwent, but the bard politely declined and ascended the stairs in Geralt’s wake like a man walking to his second execution of the day, his bag over his shoulder and lute in hand. <em> He hadn’t done anything wrong. </em> Just needed to cling to that and hope that Geralt <em> trusted </em> his word enough. He would. They’d come too far.</p><p>Jaskier knocked tentatively on the door and then entered, not expecting an answer. He found Geralt stripping off the layers of his armour and dumping each piece on top of a cabinet at the far wall with an unnecessary amount of force. “Geralt, I - uh,” the door closed quietly behind him. “Thank you for saving me, I had rather hoped our relationship had developed beyond that, but -.”</p><p>“What do you want, Jaskier? I’m tired.” He didn’t look up. <em> Couldn’t</em>. His heart hurt too much and Jaskier would see it in his face, so he busied himself with shuffling through his bag for clean clothes. “If you’ve come to ask me not to tell Eskel…”</p><p>The bard bristled. “What do I wa - ? Not tell Eskel what? Let me guess, you believe them. Believe the accusation, without even hearing my side of the story,” he threw his hands in the air. “I thought after all this ti -, no, do you know what, you’ll face me when I’m talking to you.” He stormed over and when the Witcher still didn’t turn he reached out, grabbed a shoulder and yanked. Usually, it would have only been a minor annoyance and the Witcher wouldn’t have moved at all, but Geralt <em> flinched. </em> It wasn’t a small muscle twitch, either. His entire body gave a pained spasm, and when he was facing Jaskier the grimace was only just fading. “Geralt, what - ?”</p><p>“It’s nothing.” Geralt carefully removed Jaskier’s hand from his shoulder, and when the bard looked down at his palm he saw a thin layer of blood. Whatever wound had made the Witcher wince had broken open and bled enough to saturate the black material of his shirt.</p><p>“Shirt off. Now.”</p><p>“Jaskier -.”</p><p>“<em>Don’t </em> argue. Let me see.” Jaskier folded his arms, brow set. Too tired and sore to put up resistance, Geralt grabbed the hem of his shirt and <em> peeled </em> it off, because after his little scuffle with the guards some of the wounds had torn open again. He turned his back to the bard, who sighed in resignation and rubbed his eyes. Those lines were too <em> clean </em> - too <em> fine </em> - to have been made by claws or teeth. They criss-crossed over his back in a clear hatch pattern that spoke of a skilled and practiced hand. <em> What a mess</em>. “What happened, Geralt?”</p><p>“They thought I did it. Thought I killed Foltest in front of his children,” the Witcher murmured. “Arrested and then beat me in hopes of a confession. The day before my execution, Roche finally blessed me with his presence, we talked and he believed the truth.” Only a fool would miss the emphasis Geralt put on <em> in front of his children </em> as if that was the single <em> worst </em> part of it. Not the regicide itself, but the fact that someone would think him a monster enough to do it in front of Foltest's babies. That he was truly that bestial and heartless.</p><p>“Wait -,” Jaskier pinched his nose, trying to stave off a headache. “Foltest was assassinated during, or at the end of, the siege at La Valette Castle. How could they possibly think you had anything to do with it?”</p><p>“After the first attempt on his life, Foltest was treating me like his lucky charm, ordered me to be by his side for the battle,” Geralt screwed his shirt up in his hands and then chucked it over his bag. “I protected him all the way into the castle, and then the monastery. He asked for some privacy with his children. Letho was disguised as a monk. He waited until I walked away.”</p><p>“Of course you were, because obviously you don’t get involved in the disputes of men,” Jaskier heaved a sigh and raised his hands in apology when he received an irritable glance. “Sit. Let me see to these. As they’re still open, I’m assuming you haven’t allowed anyone to help.”</p><p>“It’s fine.”</p><p>“Geralt -.” Perhaps he should have sensed Geralt’s temper fraying. He should have recognised the signs by now. The tense coil to his shoulders, the way his head tilted and bowed down between them. But this time when Geralt span around to face Jaskier, it wasn’t to banish him, but to grab him by the doublet and haul him forward. Jaskier squeaked in discomfort as he was crushed to Geralt’s chest, but relaxed when he realised exactly <em> what </em> was happening. Geralt pressed his face to the bard’s neck and inhaled deeply. <em> Scenting.  </em></p><p>They stood pressed together for several minutes and Geralt basked in the eclectic mix of odours that Jaskier had collected over the last two days because, dear reader, prisons did not have <em> any </em> bathing facilities. Eventually, <em> slowly, </em> Geralt’s shoulders relaxed, followed by his fists half a beat later. </p><p>“Found anything?” Jaskier spoke quietly, because he <em> knew </em> what Geralt was looking for. Evidence. And even though it made his chest <em> ache </em> , he realised it was needed. It hadn’t looked good. Their relationship was still building, developing, strengthening… and Geralt had found Jaskier standing on a scaffold accused of, and sentenced for, debauchery. They hadn’t really <em> discussed </em> other partners outside their polyamorous arrangement, so Jaskier just <em> hadn’t. </em> That conversation probably should happen at some point, but with everyone present. As much as he’d been a disastrous slut in his youth, he had a bigger perspective now. And three men that he cared for more deeply than his libido. Jaskier rested a hand lightly on Geralt’s bicep, “Going to let me look after you now?” </p><p>“Mm,” Geralt removed his fists from Jaskier’s doublet, and then rested his palms lightly on his chest. “I’m… sorry.” He looked up briefly. “I should have - I should trust you.”</p><p>“In your defence, you have rather had the proverbial and literal shit kicked out of you by people who were meant to be your allies. You’re probably not exactly in the right frame of mind,” he lifted both his hands to cover the dirty fingers pressed into his doublet. “You know what? We’re both filthy. Let me get a bath sorted and we can… exchange stories? I’ll tell you how I ended up in that noose, and you can tell me about… well, whatever you want. The weather, if you wish.” He smiled, and was relieved when he received a small one back. It still felt a bit <em> raw</em>, but right now Geralt was <em> literally </em> bleeding and had actually <em> apologised</em>, so Jaskier could work with what he had.</p><p>Jaskier left Geralt to rummage through his bags and managed to find a laundry tub big enough. It would be a tight fit, but Geralt wouldn’t be in there for long. They were both covered in enough <em> unpleasantness </em> to make a prolonged soak an unattractive prospect. The water arrived within twenty minutes and Jaskier tugged Geralt away from the rather battered looking tome he was flicking through. A swift glance at the cover yielded the title - <em> the Wild Hunt.  </em></p><p>Geralt hissed as he sank down onto his rear, not bothering to hide his discomfort, face twisting in varying levels of grimace as the heat of the water warred with the sting of broken skin. The wounds on his back would heal in a few days, but he hadn’t treated them with anything, and they were deep enough to be just a shade more painful than a simple irritant. His torturer had been fairly adept at his profession.</p><p>“Lean forward, I’ll do your hair first, then I’ll clean up your back,” Jaskier shed his doublet and chemise - no need to stand on ceremony - and then dipped his arms into the water to scrub them clean. “So, tell me about the siege. I’ve read quite a number of dispatches from both sides, but an eyewitness account from the wolf’s mouth would be quite something.” </p><p>Geralt sighed, rubbed a hand over his face, and then reached behind his head to tug the tie loose from his hair. “Fought across the battlements with Foltest and his knights. Used a ballista to break a barricade. Killed some people. Tried to reason with Aryan La Valette. He told me to get fucked. Killed him too. More killing. There was a dragon, probably with its lair nearby. Monastery. <em> Letho.</em>”  </p><p>It really shouldn’t be funny, and Jaskier bit down on his smile even though he was behind Geralt and lathering up the soap in his hands. That was actually <em> a lot </em> more detailed than it ever used to be. He even got <em> names </em> and a particular <em> strategy. </em> The bard hummed, “Well, the killing certainly matches the reports I’ve read. And I had <em> heard </em> there was a dragon. Lucky you were there, really. I mean, I know Witchers don’t <em> kill </em> dragons, but -.”</p><p>Another rough sigh. “<em>Jaskier, </em> we fought along the battlements while hundreds fought and died in the shit-filled streets below. The real army,” he snarled. “All because a king and his mistress had a little spat. And thousands more are going to die in the aftermath. What a fucking joke.” </p><p>“I’m - I’m sorry, Geralt. I didn’t mean to make light of it.” Jaskier murmured as he massaged his fingers into Geralt’s scalp. “Wars are never fought and won by kings, but by the sacrifices of normal men, and the families they leave behind. That will never change, my love.”</p><p>“Hm.” A soft hum now, because Geralt was allowing himself to relax under Jaskier’s attention, and so the bard fell silent and worked his thumbs down the back of Geralt’s neck. How many times had he wanted to do this over the last three-ish decades? Of course, he’d bathed Geralt in the safety of Kaer Morhen, alongside both Eskel and Lambert, and even once or twice when he’d been too injured pre-mountain, but there was something particularly <em> special </em> about washing Geralt while he was out in the wild. Even more so now that he was allowing his enjoyment to <em> show. </em>No irritable scowls, no quiet grunts of impatience if Jaskier took too long over a particular area, just the occasional soft sigh. A tired old wolf allowing himself a little slice of comfort. Jaskier rinsed his hair, one hand shielding his eyes, and then returned to his back to clean up the crusted blood, dried sweat and general filth collected around the patchwork of cuts. Geralt’s voice was soft when he spoke again, “Tell me. About how you ended up with a noose around your neck.”</p><p><em> Ahh, the noose. </em> “Well, the entire story is a bit convoluted, but I was collecting some intelligence from two twins, <em> yes, </em> in a brothel, but they chose the location. Then there was a cat and a dog, some spilt oil, and a granary tower ended up on fire, and… you know, Geralt, I can’t even remember much more. They knocked me around a bit in the gaol.” The quiet, protective growl that rumbled from the back below his palms was rather <em> pleasing. </em> “I don’t need my big bad Witcher protector to go and exact retribution. I’m more than capable of doing that myself, thank you very much.” He chucked the washcloth into the water in front of Geralt’s chest once he was happy with the state of the wounds. “<em>Debauchery </em> though. It’s a very… <em> Nilfgaardian </em> crime. Can’t help but feel a <em> little </em> bit persecuted.”</p><p>“Mm. One of the men in the crowd agreed with you. He said it was one of his favourite activities.” Geralt sounded vaguely amused, and Jaskier leaned forward to place a chaste kiss on his cheek. “Think the Black Ones might be involved in this mess?”</p><p>“Well, if my reading at Kaer Morhen is to be believed, the School of Viper made their home in the Tir Tochair mountains, did they not? Right inside the Nilfgaardian Empire,” Jaskier left Geralt to wash himself in favour of rifling through the Witcher’s bags in search of the salves and a fresh pair of braies to lay out for him. “I’m not a great believer in coincidences,” he paused, “well, apart from today, more like a miracle really. Thought I was done for this time. But I digress, <em> I wouldn’t be surprised </em> is what I’m trying to say, Geralt. But I have a few more contacts to investigate to continue building a picture. Out you get, leave me <em> some </em> warmth to enjoy.”</p><p>Jaskier tossed Geralt’s travelling towel at him, openly ogling the cascade of water. There was just something about shapely thighs framing a thick cock, wet and shining, that really… <em>did things. </em>Was his mouth watering? Yes, yes it was. “Get in the bath, Jaskier.” An amused rumble as Geralt caught him staring, and the bard grinned sheepishly as he scooted by and stripped off his breeches and braies to hop in for a quick scrub. The water was a murky grey, with hints here and there of red, so he only spent enough time in it to wash the vital areas and remove the dirt from underneath his nails. Geralt pulled on the fresh braies laid out for him and flopped onto the hard mattress with a rough sigh, his head cushioned on his arms.</p><p>“You know, Geralt, I have been faithful since I first kissed Eskel. I’m rather proud of myself, really. I think it shows a sincere growth in character,” Jaskier hopped out of the water and grabbed up Geralt’s damp towel to quickly rub away the worst of the moisture. “And it’s not just because I know you could smell a gnat’s sh--.” He was interrupted by the softest snore, and he looked up suddenly. <em> Oh. </em>Jaskier tiptoed across to the bed, shifted the blankets up to Geralt’s waist, and then set about finding himself some clean underwear before climbing in next to him. “Rest, wolf. I’ll keep watch.” He stroked the hair out of Geralt’s face and tucked it behind one ear; his eyes flickered, but he didn't wake. Jaskier would treat his back tomorrow. The cuts had stopped bleeding for now.</p><p>
  <em> Yeah, it was shaping up to be a tough year. </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Note for this chapter: in canon, <em>Dandelion</em> already knows Zoltan and, in fact, was going to attend his wedding until it was cancelled. Because of our altered timeline, I've binned that off. </p><p>Just a further update from your hard-working - and maddeningly disorganised - writer. I've had a few wily readers question me about chronology which I had been paying some attention to, but not enough. I've been too excited about fulfilling reader prompts. So. Having thought about your comments carefully, here it goes:</p><p>(1) Dear Heart -&gt; <em>A year of Eskel-pades for Jaskier</em> -&gt; (2) Winter Bonding -&gt; (3) Before You Go -&gt; (4) Walking with Wolves.</p><p>I did originally think Winter Bonding could lump into Walking with Wolves as a one-shot inside the story, but, quite rightly, there are questions of continuity with Lambert's character that way. Sorry for the confusion. I may even try and fit in Jaskier's extra year with Eskel at some point too. *quietly chucks all and <em>any</em> of the canon chronology out the window while talking* So, yes. Sorry, and thank you for sticking with me despite my ineptitude. Your comments, as you can tell, are highly valued and factored in to the 'verse we are building together. Namaste.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Spring Awakenings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was the <em> absence </em> that disturbed Jaskier. He rolled over in his sleep and stretched a hand out to rest on the warm body he expected to be next to him, but his fingers grasped empty space. His eyes snapped open immediately and he sat up. It didn’t take him long to spot his Witcher. Geralt was kneeling in the moonlight flooding through the window, his hands on his thighs and his head bowed. <em>Meditating</em>. His white hair, free of its tie, hung like an ethereal halo around his head and his jaw was clenched tightly. <em>Not relaxed.</em> Perfectly still only for a moment, before his head lifted and his eyes turned towards Jaskier; heart hammering in his chest, panting breaths, the bard was as loud as rolling thunder in the silence of the night. </p><p>Jaskier spoke first, “Are you alright?”</p><p>“Yes,” Geralt replied, and tilted his head down. There was a time when the conversation would have ended there, but not now. “I had a dream.”</p><p>“A… bad one? Or - ?”</p><p>“Neither bad nor good. It’s a memory. From after Rivia.”</p><p>Jaskier’s eyes widened. “After you di - ? Geralt, that’s -,” he kicked the blankets away and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “Do you, umm, do you want to talk about it? Do you need some water? Is there, uh - ?” His mad stuttering petered out as he saw the amused crinkle at the corners of Geralt’s eyes, and he huffed, trying to stem the smile that bloomed naturally every time Geralt <em> looked </em> at him like that. “I’m trying to be helpful. The least you could do is accept the glass of water.” </p><p>“The water would be nice.” Geralt watched Jaskier shuffle from the room, and considered the midnight skies outside the window. Another dream, another deadend. Nothing new. By the time Jaskier returned, Geralt was sitting on the edge of the bed and took the tankard of water gratefully. “Thanks.”</p><p>“So, going to tell me about this dream?”</p><p>“Hm,” Geralt stared at the leatherbound book propped on the top of his pack by the wall. “It’s usually the same. I’m running through a forest and there are riders pursuing me. And then sometimes I <em> am </em> one of the riders pursuing someone else - the Wild Hunt. I wake up and try and relive the dream and the memory, hoping I’ll find some guidance.” He grimaced at the floor and took a long drink from the tankard to cover it. “I think Letho will have more answers. Only met him briefly while I was in Nilfgaard, and all he said was ‘I owe you’.” </p><p>“Well, that is a predicament, isn’t it?” Jaskier folded his legs underneath him as he perched next to Geralt, head tilting against one broad shoulder. “He’s guilty of the crimes of which you are accused, and yet he could hold the key to a whole section of your memory. Does Roche know?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Does Triss know?”</p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>“And - ?”</p><p>“She gave me that book. Hoping it might jog something. And,” he finished the water and dropped the tankard onto the floor. “I can’t shake the feeling it has something to do with Ciri. Everything. And, uh -,” he glanced at Jaskier and shifted uncomfortably. “- that terrifies me. How can I protect her from something that I can’t even remember?” </p><p>The confession hung heavily in the air between them. Geralt was <em> terrified </em> of something. Witchers weren’t meant to feel fear - they weren’t meant to feel anything, but they were <em> way </em> past that particular stereotype - no, it had been <em> mutated </em> out of them, hadn’t it? But here was Geralt of Rivia, defender of kings, slayer of monsters, a man that had <em> bested </em> death, wallowing in a quiet, consuming fear that he could not protect his loved ones. That he would not - <em> could not </em> - be enough. Jaskier spoke softly, “Have you found any leads on her whereabouts?” His answer was a sad shake of the head, and Jaskier sighed, lifting an arm to go in for a hug but stopping short. “I want to embrace you, but your back makes a map of Novigrad look like a child’s sketch. Can I put some salve on it now?”</p><p>“It’s really not that bad. They’ll be gone in a couple more days. Don’t waste it.” Even after half a night’s sleep, the dull throb of pain was becoming less, and Geralt scratched at the tight, itchy skin on his shoulder where it was beginning to knit together.</p><p>“Open quote. It’s not wasting it if it makes you feel better now. End quote.” Jaskier murmured, and ignored the startled look he received in favour of retrieving the salve he’d extracted from Geralt’s packs the evening before. “Yes, Lambert tells me everything.”</p><p>“I’ll have to keep that in mind.”</p><p>“On your front, Witcher.” Jaskier waited patiently as Geralt stretched out on the bed with another of those heavy sighs, and then cocked a leg over him to sit on his rear. “You know, I think he’s actually the best trained out of all three of you. I thought it was Eskel, but even he can struggle to verbalise things sometimes. Lambert, I just sit him down, give him a kiss and set him off.” </p><p>“Hm. Different generation,” Geralt tucked his arms under the flimsy pillow beneath his head and hummed quietly as Jaskier’s fingers brushed gently across his back; the coolness of the salve was sweet relief to the cuts he hadn’t realised were actually <em> burning. </em> </p><p>“Or perhaps not quite as old and crotchety yet. How old<em> is </em> he?”</p><p>“Mm, not sure, fifty, maybe. Still a baby.” Geralt mumbled into his arm, another deep sigh releasing more tension from his back as Jaskier’s thumb pushed over his shoulder blade along the line of one of the deeper lacerations. The bard could tell that Geralt was slipping into a blissful haze as his voice became quieter and his sentences less coherent. <em> Good. </em>He’d sleep better after this. </p><p>“Fifty and still a baby. Hmm,” Jaskier grinned into the darkness, imagining Lambert’s face if someone called him the ‘baby of Kaer Morhen’. He seemed to like ‘little wolf’ enough, but Geralt only ever used it during play. When the monsters and the evils of man were both kept at bay by a roaring fireplace and the strong embrace of Eskel’s arms. It was as he closed his eyes for a moment, returning mentally to the warm pile of furs and linen sheets that made their winter nest, that Jaskier finally picked up the sound of a quiet rumble beneath the stillness.</p><p>Each of his Witchers communicated their pleasure in a different way, and it reflected the nature of the heart inside them. Now that he had been set free within the safety of their love, Lambert’s purr was so loud and strong that Jaskier practically <em> vibrated </em> when they were wrapped around each other. It was manic, powerful and utterly devoted. Eskel’s was deep and strong, like it rumbled from within the Blue Mountains around the keep; it offered stability, warmth, and lulled Jaskier to sleep most nights without fail. And Geralt’s reflected the pain of a beaten and abused heart. Always soft, tentative. There were unspoken questions beneath the subtle tremble. Can I enjoy this? Is this allowed? Is it safe for me - ? Still unsure whether he was actually <em> permitted </em> even the smallest iota of tenderness, and then to be <em> seen </em> to enjoy it. To want it.</p><p>He was getting better. Perhaps, with time, his purr would be as loud as Lambert’s and as assured as Eskel’s. Because he <em> did </em> deserve it. He <em> was </em> allowed it. But Geralt needed time and repeated proof. A man of action, not hollow platitudes.</p><p>Every cut soon shone with the oily salve that would help them heal just a little faster, but Jaskier was still going. Slick hands wandered to Geralt’s lower back, marked only by a long, thin scar several decades old. He found a knot and kneaded it until it popped under his thumb and Geralt let out a quiet grunt. Jaskier looked up, fingers splaying out with the lightest pressure; Geralt’s eyes were mostly closed and his back rose and fell in a deep, relaxed rhythm. So Jaskier continued lower until he straddled Geralt’s knees; his thumbs hooked beneath the waist of his braies and pulled them down his thighs. There was an appreciative “mmph” from the top as he manipulated the two firm muscles under his palms enthusiastically, squeezing handfuls of pert backside until his own cock had filled out greedily, sitting heavily in the cradle of his underwear, and Geralt had squirmed with enjoyment a total of <em> three whole times</em>.</p><p>These braies were getting in the way. Clearly Geralt agreed, because as soon as Jaskier tugged at them again, the Witcher dug his knees into the bed and lifted his hips, allowing them to be shucked all the way off once he’d settled back into place. Jaskier pushed the heels of his hands into the bottom of Geralt’s rear in firm, outward circles. “This is possibly the most regularly abused part of you, isn’t it?” Jaskier murmured, and then saw white eyebrows leap upwards in the edges of his vision. “Oh, shush, get out of the gutter.” <em> Actually, no, stay there. </em> Lower lip between his teeth, Jaskier pushed his thumbs through the crease at the very top of Geralt’s thighs and heard the first hitch of breath. If it hadn’t been accompanied by a very <em> definite </em> parting of legs, Jaskier might have taken it as an indicator to stop. “Feeling demanding tonight, are we?”</p><p>“Mm.” Geralt hummed, head tilting a little more as he peered briefly over his shoulder before he flopped back down. Demanding and lazy. <em> That was fine</em>, Jaskier mused, <em> he’d earned it</em>. Geralt’s hips lifted slightly again, guiding Jaskier’s hands insistently with the first huff of impatience. <em> Well, </em> if the salve was safe enough to enter Geralt’s <em> blood stream </em> then it was safe enough for his tenderest areas, so the bard ran his thumb gently down Geralt’s cleft and pressed the pad to his entrance. “Mmm.” A longer hum, appreciative. A firm circle, tugging his rim open ever so slightly, earned a much lower sound from deeper in Geralt’s chest and Jaskier grinned. After a moment to readjust - gathering his legs inside Geralt’s now otherwise he was going to be pulled in half by Geralt’s insistence - he topped up his hands with more salve, rubbing his fingers together to melt and warm it into an oily slick across his skin. His thumb returned in broad, sensuous strokes that sent a ripple of pleasure up Geralt’s spine, visible in how relaxed, pliable muscles bunched briefly before evening out again.</p><p>Even with the angry red lines criss-crossing his back, Geralt was beautiful like this. His brow smooth, golden eyes glowing but barely open, his lips tilted in the faintest smile of enjoyment. There was no pageantry to it, but sometimes the simplest beauty was the finest, and Jaskier revelled in each minute twitch and sound he coaxed from his lover. Like the quiet gasp as he slipped his index finger into Geralt’s slick and pliant hole; the reedy, low moan as he added a second and moved them slowly, curling, pressing, exploring, but deliberately avoiding the prostate until Geralt was canting his hips and gripping at the sheets below him, trying to push Jaskier on. “Be still, love, I’ve got you.” Jaskier purred, and Geralt settled, allowing the bard to control the pace of his pleasure, even as it coiled tightly in his stomach.</p><p>Jaskier dipped his free hand inside his own braies and began to pump his cock in time with his fingers as they thrust into Geralt. As his ass became more lax, Jaskier slipped in a third finger, twisting, stretching; Geralt’s stuttering pants now punctuated by wrecked, breathy moans. The first time Jaskier fluttered his fingertips over that fleshy bud inside him he let out a bitten cry and Jaskier could feel his own precum leaking down the shaft of his cock as he drew close.</p><p>“Geralt, can I - can I come on your skin, please?” Probably should have negotiated that before Geralt was incoherent, but the Witcher gave an affirmative grunt just in the knick of time and Jaskier pressed the tip of his cock to Geralt’s tailbone with a quiet, subdued moan. His spend pooled in the sensitive nook at the top of Geralt’s cleft and dripped down towards his entrance; the sensation was enough to spike his pleasure, and Jaskier moved his finger slowly as the Witcher’s body shuddered through his orgasm.</p><p>A gentle hand circled on Geralt’s back until he was settled again, and only then did Jaskier withdraw from the bed to quickly rinse his fingers in the cold bathwater. He grabbed the still damp towel from the floor to clean the Witcher off, but when he nudged Geralt’s hip, he received a disgruntled frown, to which he replied with a raised eyebrow. “You're going to sleep on your own - ?” Another quiet grunt and Geralt rolled to the side, propping his head up on his hand as Jaskier quickly ran the towel over the bedding. “You know, you’re so cantankerous, sometimes. Anyone else would think you’re ungrateful, you’re lucky that I am fluent in y -.” His tirade cut off as a burly arm curled around his waist and pulled him flush to Geralt’s chest. The Witcher settled, after pressing a series of kisses along Jaskier’s neck and shoulders, with a grateful hum. “Yes, well, you’re welcome.”</p><p>***</p><p>Being left behind during a hunt had rankled Jaskier as a young man. He’d felt like he was missing out on the <em> best bit </em> about being a Witcher’s companion; the glorious combat, the mighty Witcher triumphing over the evil monster, the majesty of it all unfolding before his very eyes. But with age, he’d come to realise that <em> missing out </em> was not the <em> real </em> reason he grew restless and unhappy when Geralt - or now any one of his Witchers - went off to fight a monster. </p><p>The main reason was <em> worry. </em> </p><p>And never had he been so <em> worried </em> as when he watched Geralt head off into the forests with Zoltan to find a Scoia'tael commander. It was so deep, so acute. Because his Witcher was not heading into those trees in search of a griffon or a ghoul or a basilisk, he was heading in search of a monster he’d never been trained to deal with. One born of politics, hardship, and strife. A monster that he probably had more in common with than the blasted man that had sent him in. Roche, in his single-minded pursuit of justice for his slain king, dispatched Geralt as just another tool. Still smarting from the injuries left behind by Roche’s own lash, plagued by nightmares - because that is what they were, <em> Geralt</em>, be they memories or not - and still looking tired and worn. No one <em> cared </em> that Geralt didn’t want to do anything more than hunt and kill monsters. Destiny kept drawing him in no matter how hard - how bitterly - he fought against it.</p><p>The dwarf’s Scoia’tael connections had been brought to light by Loredo, whom Geralt had dutifully gone to see the following morning as requested. The loathsome man had demanded strategic intelligence in exchange for Jaskier and Zoltan’s freedom. Begrudgingly, Geralt agreed to provide it and the two alleged criminals were now free to leave the cesspit of Flotsam at their whim. Upon returning from Loredo’s manor, Geralt barely had time to chug down some mead, before Triss dragged him to the prison barge she had spotted upon their arrival to visit a Scoia’tael lieutenant held on board. The elf died within an hour of Triss and Geralt’s arrival, beaten to a bloody pulp before they got there, but they secured the information they needed. <em> Letho was nearby. </em>In some ancient elven ruins, in fact. Geralt left with one final squeeze of Jaskier’s hand.</p><p>Triss kept to herself in her room upstairs - no doubt doing sorcery-type things - so Jaskier earned himself some coin downstairs with a few of his bawdier songs. Half an hour after Geralt’s departure, Roche left with a retinue of men. <em> That’s fine, back up. </em>Several more hours passed. Most of the day in fact. At one point there was a loud thud above his head, but Jaskier didn’t think anything of it.  </p><p>
  <em> Then Geralt limped through the tavern door propped up by Zoltan. </em>
</p><p>Jaskier almost dropped his lute, but managed to steady it against the table before he ran to Geralt’s side. He was beaten and bloody, with bruises around his throat, face and gods’ know where else. “What happened?”</p><p>“<em>Letho,</em>” he managed to grate out. “Triss, where is she?”</p><p>“In her room, she’s been there since you left.”</p><p>Geralt staggered and nudged the dwarf away to haul himself up the stairs. Jaskier followed in his wake, but instead of heading towards their shared room, the Witcher headed down the hallway and smashed his shoulder into Triss’ door until the hinges gave way.</p><p>
  <em> The room was empty. </em>
</p><p>Jaskier frowned. “No, she hasn’t left, Geralt. I’ve been downstairs <em> all day. </em>”</p><p>“<em>Fuck,</em>” Geralt smacked the side of his fist into the doorframe, one hand shifting over his ribs where Letho had given him an absolute kicking. “He took her. To Aedirn. Portal.” The window was cracked open, but there was no sign of a struggle. He would have caught her by surprise. “We need to leave. Now.”</p><p>“Tomorrow morning, Geralt,” Roche’s dulcet tones from the hallway. “Get yourself cleaned up. Jaskier, you will come with us. I will need to dispatch you to Kaedwen, however, to collect some intelligence from Henselt’s court. He has designs on Temerian territory that I would like to know more about.”</p><p>“Well, y - yes, of course.” Jaskier wasn’t sure what else to say. He had some connections within the Kaedweni court that he could draw upon to find himself an opening. But that could wait. Geralt needed a dose of Swallow and a lie down. “Please excuse us, commander. If you want your pet Witcher in any state to travel and fight, I will need to see to his wounds.” The bard fluttered his hand at Roche to move him out the way, and then took Geralt by the elbow to steer him down the hall. Only once the door was closed, the key turned, did Jaskier leap towards Geralt and take his face in two hands to press a kiss to his lips. It was neither fierce nor demanding, but he needed to <em> taste </em> his Witcher, to be certain that he was still there and warm and <em> alive. </em>Geralt sat on the edge of the bed and gripped Jaskier’s doublet weakly until he drew away. “What happened?”</p><p>“He beat the shit out of me,” Geralt murmured as if it were a stupid question, and when he received an impatient glare. “I was… distracted. He kept shit-talking, and then right before he could have delivered the killing below, backed off and said we’re now even. <em> Told </em> me he was coming for Triss.”</p><p>“Lambert shit-talks, bandits shit-talk, hell, even Eskel gives you a little poke in the courtyard. You tune it out.” Jaskier rooted through Geralt’s alchemy bag and found the potion he was looking for. When he pushed it into Geralt’s hand, the Witcher blinked in confusion. “A lot has changed over the last few years. Drink up.” </p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt knocked the noxious bile back with a light grimace and stared down at the empty vial in his palm. “He talked about the Wild Hunt, Jaskier. Goaded me. He knows <em> more. </em>I need to tie him down and kick the shit out of him until he tells me.”</p><p>“Yes, well, please do save some for me, won’t you? I lay my almost-hanging at his feet in addition to the heinous crime of hitting your beautiful face.” Jaskier took the empty bottle from Geralt’s hand and tossed it into his bags, before setting about unbuckling the pauldrons from Geralt’s shoulders.</p><p>“Jaskier, don’t go to Kaedwen.”</p><p>“What?” A raised eyebrow.</p><p>“Go home. To Oxenfurt. Please.” </p><p>Jaskier dropped his hands away and planted them on his hips. He stared into those golden eyes that pleaded with him, and then heaved a sigh. “You know I can’t do that.”</p><p>“You almost <em> died </em> yesterday. If I’d been five minutes later, or - <em> for fuck’s sake, Jaskier. </em>” Geralt pushed his hands away when they tried to return to his armour and stood up. There was a time when that baleful glare would have sent chills down the bard’s spine. It might even have sent him skittering down a mountain with his tail between his legs. But now he stood this ground, with his hands back at his waist, levelling an even stare.</p><p>“As I said. A lot has changed, dear heart. Now,” he lifted a palm slowly to rest on Geralt’s chest, rubbing in small, soothing circles to calm his frustrated wolf, “we can argue about this all night, and you can steam and huff and do all those lovely, brooding things you like to do. <em> Or </em> we can get you undressed, cleaned up, and I can lay in your arms and pretend that another Witcher didn’t almost kill you today. Destiny has designs on you, Geralt of Rivia, but I will not allow her to steal our last remaining hours with her what-might-bes and what-could-have-beens.”</p><p>“I can’t lose you.” A hoarse, broken whisper. The <em> as well </em> so loud beneath his tone that Jaskier could almost see the wounds in his Witcher’s soul.</p><p>“You won’t. I give you my word. Bard’s honour.” He rested a palm over his heart and raised his other hand, which seemed to amuse Geralt enough to stir him from his melancholy. With the assistance of Swallow, Geralt was mobile enough to strip himself off and apply some salves to the bruising. There were no cuts or bloody injuries outside a split in his lip and eyebrow, so they were soon curled around each other on the hard, uncomfortable pallet mattress. Jaskier couldn’t even kiss him because of the lingering toxicity of the potion in his mouth, so had to settle for wrapping his arms gently at Geralt’s waist and holding him close. “Do not allow them to take you, Geralt. Fight them. Fight them every step.”</p><p>“I will.”</p><p>They fell asleep in a desperate tangle of limbs.</p><p>***</p><p>The journey to Aedirn was slow and uneventful. They couldn’t even curl up with each other because of the looming presence of the Blue Stripes nearby, so Jaskier settled for passing touches and gentle smiles to comfort him as they drew closer to their destination. He was able to spend only one night with Geralt in Vengerberg before the impatient bastard Vernon Roche dispatched his informant towards Kaedwen. The last kiss he shared with Geralt was gentle, but deep. He memorised the map of his lover’s mouth with his tongue while he traced his face and body with his hands and fingers. Breathless, with lips swollen, Jaskier finally drew away and lifted his bag to his shoulder. </p><p>“See you in Posada, wolf.” </p><p>“Be safe, little lark.”</p><p>Neither were requests. They were both the same order in a different guise. <em> Be there.  </em></p><p>Jaskier scrubbed the tears from his eyes as he walked the cobbled paths out of town towards the nearest stagecoach, begging whatever deities were watching over Geralt to keep him safe, even if they were determined to drive him down roads he did not want to walk. “Death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak,” he whispered bitterly. “What a load of fucking crap.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Summer Spyin'</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The fiend was… <em> big. </em> Lambert had been hoping it was a chort. They tended to be smaller. Rounded horns. Less prickly shit to get snagged and mauled by. But <em> no. It was a fiend. </em>A mighty beast, with a huge, bulging torso covered in fur and short bristles. Its hind legs, not unlike those of a goat, kicked at the dirt as it tore through the cow carcass that Lambert had provided as bait. No fiend in its right mind would give up such an easy meal. If only the rest of the world was as simple as hunting monsters.</p><p>The fiend’s grotesque head sprouted almost directly from its massive shoulders and every time it ripped off another torso sized steak from its bovine delicacy its entire body shook. Its extensive antlers swayed with each shudder, catching on the canopy and the shrubbery around it, and its clawed forelegs pawed through skin and organs. Quite an impressive specimen really. Male. Nice and aggressive because it would be going into rut soon.</p><p>
  <em> Oh the shitheads in Daevon better fucking pay him. </em>
</p><p>Fiends were no joke. The ugly bastards didn’t usually go anywhere near villages, but when the fancy took them they rampaged mercilessly through human settlements in search of food, and didn’t stop until their hunger had been sated. The nearby communities were at their wit’s end and wanted to return home. They were paying a handsome fee and Lambert needed a horse.</p><p>Hidden on top of a rocky outcrop downwind, Lambert rolled his shoulders, unhooked the samum bomb from his belt and ignited it with a flick of his wrist. His silver sword whispered from its sheath, and he held it up along his forearm, waiting for his opening. The fiend had dragged the corpse too far away for him to execute his initial plan - clever fuck - so he was going to improvise. Nothing like a mad sprint for your life on a roasting summer’s day. The Witcher slid down from his perch, took several deep breaths and ran forward as the beast finally disposed of the last of the cow. It saw him instantly and let out an ear-splitting roar. Lambert skidded underneath it on his side and through its hind legs; the bomb he threw upwards as he ducked below its chest exploded in a shower of dazzling silver, blinding it. He sliced deep into its right leg, before rolling deftly to his feet. </p><p>The beast screeched again and Lambert dived underneath one of its forelegs as it lunged. He deflected the antlers that stabbed forward next, and then rolled out the way as another savage blow came crashing down from above. The samum bomb prevented it from hypnotising him, and he’d taken an advanced version of Cat just to make sure, but that didn’t make the fucker any less dangerous. Even with a gaping wound in its haunch, it would tear him to pieces if it got close enough. If anything, the injury just pissed it off. “C’mon, you ugly fuck, chase me.” Getting it to charge would usually be a <em> bad </em> idea, but Lambert had a destination in mind. He landed a few more cursory blows to its torso, the relict oil on his blade fizzling and spitting as it mixed with oily black blood, and then he broke into a sprint.</p><p>Hooves and claws turned up huge swathes of earth as the fiend tried to charge Lambert down. Blinded, it was following the sound of Lambert’s breathing and the drum of his boots; trees, bushes, of no consequence. But a huge boulder Lambert had been sat on until very recently? Perfect. The Witcher took a running leap and landed with both feet high on the rock as the fiend smashed head first into it beneath him. He kicked off and executed a tight backwards flip that took him just over its  antlers to land on its mane-covered back. Stunned by the impact, the fiend didn’t even realise it had a passenger until the silver sword drove down through its head. With one final rattling breath, it collapsed and Lambert rode it the short distance to the ground, twisting the blade deeper <em>just to make sure.</em> </p><p>And then his fucking sword got stuck. </p><p>“Fuck.” He wrapped both hands around the pommel, braced his feet behind the antlers and flicked his shoulders with a snarl; the blade broke free abruptly and a veritable fountain of oily black blood erupted from the wound, coating him from head to toe. Head tilted back, amber eyes staring at the open blue sky, he breathed a deep, calming sigh. “Fucking <em> laundry. </em>” </p><p>But another perfect hunt. One more slice of his self doubt evaporated. The first few months had been… interesting. The first <em> week </em> had been impossible. Every time he wandered into a human settlement, his skin crawled and he found his temper fraying with every accidental jostle and leering glance. The moment he’d nearly drowned a Kaedweni soldier in a pig trough for calling him a ‘whoreson’, he knew he had to spend a week calming down in the wilderness. So he did. He meditated, he hunted, and he grew accustomed to being <em> him </em> again, without the restrictions (read: support) of his pack. </p><p>The deeper and more remote the location, the easier it was to find sleep, so he returned often to the many elven ruins dotted throughout Kaedwen, visited only rarely by the Aen Seidhe in acts of pilgrimage or worship. The humans avoided them because they thought they were cursed, or haunted, or both. That suited Lambert just fine. Although he realised, after causing an avalanche by letting loose an Aard while he was having a nightmare, that he couldn’t sleep in caves. No great loss. He preferred being able to see the stars anyway. The bad dreams were becoming rarer too, which was… <em> good. </em>Meant he was getting better, right? </p><p>Lambert climbed back onto the rock to grab his bag and carefully wrapped some of the ancillary items he’d harvested from the fiend. Its tongue, eyes, a swathe of its skin, its heart and a vial of its blood that he could use to create the fifth element concoction. All worth <em> a lot </em> of money. That horse was <em> his </em> after this hunt. With his proof bound up in a rope over his shoulder, he set fire to the corpse with a quick Igni and headed back into town. <em> Gunna treat me to some vodka. </em></p><p>The alderman blinked in alarm when Lambert dumped the head on his doorstep half an hour later, and then stared at him with an open mouth; they always seemed so stunned that the monster hunting business was a rather <em> involved </em> one, with <em> gore </em> and <em> shit</em>. The Witcher lifted a gloved hand to his face and smeared through the coating of black blood on his right cheek, before heaving a sigh. “Just… money. Now.” He growled irritably, and was rewarded swiftly with a heavy pouch of coins in the palm of his hand. Daevon wasn’t far outside Ard Carraigh. He liked it particularly because this was where Merigold got gastritis when she was helping Geralt escort Ciri, and that amused Lambert <em> endlessly.  </em></p><p>He walked further into town and used some of his reward money to buy a quick bath in one of the back store rooms of the local tavern, because <em> fuck </em> splurging on an actual room. Once his skin was fiend-free, he shoved his dirty clothes into his pack to be washed in a river later and quickly threw on his second set before departing for the nearby stable. There was a rather nice looking grey that he’d had his eye on since arriving. Hadn’t decided on a name yet.</p><p>***</p><p>Day faded to night, but the summer heat continued to hang heavily in the air and Lambert found himself sitting in the middle of the square by the well. The grey had been purchased earlier in the day, and all the other horses were too thin and too sickly. None of them would have survived a week under the strain of being a Witcher’s mount. So, horseless and feeling morose, Lambert had grabbed himself some vodka with the intention of downing it and heading out towards Shaerrawedd to spend a few days in the peace of the wilderness. That particular elven ruin had a waterfall, and a high plateau that required a good deal of wall climbing to get to. <em> Fucking beautiful. </em> And only him to enjoy it. </p><p>Except now he was <em> sitting </em> and <em> brooding</em>, and when that happened he knew he was going to spend an entire night just people-watching from afar. The festival of Beltane was tomorrow. The festival of <em> love</em>. The entire village was being decorated, and the preparations would continue well into the next day; Beltane was a <em> night-time </em> thing, because it was all about the dancing, the drink and the romance. And Lambert… <em> fuck, </em> it hurt him to watch it, but he watched it all anyway. Watched it happen without him. It was a shitty… condition of his. Vesemir said it was loneliness, and he should find himself a whore for the evening if it became too strong. Vesemir didn’t know <em> shit. </em> It was just nice sometimes to watch normal people do normal things and think that, maybe, if - <em> fuck, </em> just drink the vodka and start walking.</p><p>He was about half a bottle in - and not the least bit fucking fuzzy - when he spotted a familiar flutter of colour disappear down an alleyway. Now, the entire <em> village </em> was colourful at the moment - streamers, flowers, wreaths - but <em> this </em> flutter of colour was uniquely branded into his mind. A rich, alluring violet. Mainly because he’d spent several hours sewing up a hole in that doublet after he’d ripped it with his teeth and its owner had been really fucking upset, and he just couldn’t deal with that so he’d made it good as new, didn’t even sew a dick in it or anything, and said pretty owner had been all beautiful smiles - <em> anyway </em>… He put the cork in the top of his bottle and flipped it over in his hands, with a broad grin. “Buttercup.” </p><p>Lambert rolled to his feet and then paused, eyes narrowing. Two large men followed Jaskier into the alleyway. Two more were lingering nearby and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. <em> Buttercup was involved in some shit. </em>The Witcher sauntered his way around the side of the tavern, adding a bit of a stagger to make himself look inconspicuous amongst the other drunks stumbling around at the front. Once he was out of sight, he cleared several crates and hauled himself up onto the roof. Back against the chimney, he peered down into the alleyway…</p><p>“Do you have the information I requested?” Jaskier, but it wasn’t his usually soft tone, full of love, affection and memories of <em> really </em> good times. It was sharp. Clipped. These were not his allies.</p><p>“Depends. Do you have the payment?” A contemptuous drawl from an unseen source. Lambert could see the second thug shifting from his right foot to his left, right hand twitching; he was angling for the dirk at his hip.</p><p>“Of course. But I need to see the letters first. I’m not an amatuer.” Jaskier folded his arms, impatient, his back against a thin dividing wall of wooden planks propped up by barrels and crates. Behind <em> that </em> were the two men that had perked Lambert’s attention, and they were armed. Blocking an escape route. This was an ambush. </p><p>“Well, y’see, little bard, y’kinda’ are. You’ve come unescorted to see two mercenaries in the dead of night. We’ll be taking the money and the intelligence with us. You can either give it to us now or we’ll run you through and leave you to bleed out.”</p><p>Lambert left his bag safely by the chimney, moved down the slope of the roof silently, and dropped back to the ground. Back pressed against the wall, he took a quick peek around the corner to scout the positions of the two mercenaries Jaskier didn’t know about. Needed to get in close so that he could get rid of them without too much noise. Didn’t want to warn the two currently pinning Buttercup down. The din from inside the tavern would disguise quiet conversation and a little bit of scuffling. So, he pulled a Novigrad Special. <em> Ask the Cat.  </em></p><p>With a long suffering groan, Lambert staggered around the corner, kicking an empty bottle by his foot for added effect. As predicted the two mercenaries turned to scowl at him, and he fluttered a hand at them dismissively. “Need a piss, don’t look,” two hands dropped towards his trousers as he staggered closer. “<em>Wait</em>, I know you. I - I think you owe me money.” Eyes narrowed, he swayed and lifted an accusatory finger. “<em>Yeah</em>… we played Gwent a couple weeks ago and you cheaped out on me.”</p><p>“Fuck off, whoreson,” One of the mercenaries growled, but the Witcher - that they had not identified as such just yet due to the darkness - moved even closer and almost fell against them. The thug’s lip curled in disgust when Lambert reached a hand out. “Ahh, fuck Reg’, he’s too blind drunk. Just shank him and we can get back to business.” A hushed whisper.</p><p>“No, let - let me get a closer look - hang on,” Lambert leaned in, and <em>then</em> his adversary caught a glimpse of those cat-like eyes and his own went wide. He didn’t get a chance to shout though, because Lambert snapped his neck in one swift movement. A second later, his knife disappeared through the chin of the other. “No, you’re right, I was mistaken.” Voice low as his second victim gurgled through the blood pouring out of his mouth, and then slumped to the floor when the blade was removed. Eskel wouldn’t approve. <em>Axii, Lambert.</em> And Geralt would lecture him. <em>Not every occasion demands your patented approach of stab, stab some more - </em>blah, blah, pretty boy. Well, they weren’t here. Lambert was. And Buttercup was in trouble.</p><p>Then, from the other side of the divide, one of the mercenaries lost patience. “Just kill him.” Lambert leapt at the barricade, jumping from barrel to crate, right hand already lifting for his steel sword…</p><p>One mercenary lay groaning on the floor, hands gripping his bollocks and throat, and Jaskier had the other pinned to the wall with a knife pressed at his jugular. The bloke looked stunned. Lambert was just really fucking aroused. He sat slowly on top of the fence, elbow on knee, chin in palm. “<em>Buttercup</em>, I’ve never been so proud.”</p><p>The bard blinked. “Lambert? What - what are you doing here?”</p><p>“Well, I was in the area, having a bit of a stargaze, and noticed you were keeping some rather unsavoury company. Thought I’d come give you a lecture since Eskel wasn’t here to do it.” He grinned. “That and there were two more lining up for a bit of a gang bang, so I thought I’d better nip that in the bud.” A thumb over his shoulder, and then he finally dropped down to the floor. “Seems you’ve got it all under control.” Practically a purr now, pupils wide, and Jaskier just gave him an incredulous smile.</p><p>“You three are--.”</p><p>“Horny Witchers with a thing for competent, attractive bards, yeah,” Lambert rolled the floored thug onto his back with his toe. “What is it they owe you?”</p><p>“Should be a handful of letters about some invasion plans. Henselt’s looking to take Temeria, at worst split it between himself and Radovid, at best take it for himself. I just need the proof.”</p><p>“Hmm, let’s have a looksie then.” Lambert crouched down, leaning one knee into the man’s throat to keep him still as he rifled through the thin gambeson and plethora of other pockets and nooks, before knocking him out cold with a swift blow to the temple. “Nothin’ here.” A search of the second mercenary yielded little more than a betting stub and a handful of crowns. “Unless they’ve shoved them up their ass, they’ve stiffed you.”</p><p>“Seems so,” Jaskier sighed, looked away, and then smashed his captive hard enough in the side of the head to render him unconscious. “<em>Fuck. </em> An entire week, <em> wasted.</em>” He slipped the knife back inside his doublet. “I should have known it was too good to be true, but I’m just,” he sighed again; it was a deep, exhausted huff accompanied by a wrinkled nose, “I just needed a win.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Lambert stepped forward and gathered Jaskier up against the wall, one foot braced on the unconscious form beside them. The world receded as Lambert felt his Buttercup relax into him, and he buried his nose in the crook of that elegant neck. The scent was so warm, so rich and deep. Couldn’t stand like this forever though. “Need to get rid of the bodies.”</p><p>A huff of laughter. “Yes, I suppose we do. Bloody hell -,” Jaskier pushed gently against his chest, “- how are we going to do this? These two are still alive.”</p><p>“Leave it to me.” Lambert grinned brightly and then, when he received a skeptical look, schooled his face better. “I’ve - uh, I’ve had some experience.” Another pause. “Don’t tell Eskel.”</p><p>“I think we don’t tell Eskel about <em> any </em> of tonight. Agreed? You need to take them outside of town. Maybe tie them to a sign, or - I don’t know, but they’re going to be pretty angry when they wake. Too much trouble to come and find me again. Easier to forget and move on.”</p><p>A nod. “Go inside. Give me half an hour. I’ll get them far enough out they won’t bother you again, and it’ll be less obvious if it’s just me. You make a peacock look discreet.” A wry smirk.</p><p>“Are you - are you sure?” Jaskier blinked, and then pouted. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Look, alright, I’ll have some food waiting for you, and we can catch up.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Lambert flicked his head towards the tavern, and smiled wider when Jaskier pressed a kiss to his cheek before disappearing inside. Buttercup thought it was alright to leave these two alive, because technically, now that they were disarmed, killing them would be murder. He was too used to being the hero, even if his younger self might have been less forgiving. After seeing so much war, death and pain, Jaskier viewed life as something to preserve at all costs. He had a moral duty to do so. </p><p>Morality could be such a fickle thing. That dodgy, wavy line between right and wrong that seemed to shift depending on how <em> rich </em> or how <em> noble </em> you were. Something that was <em> wrong </em> for a peasant was perfectly <em> acceptable </em> for someone more powerful. So Lambert didn’t pay much attention to it. Geralt had likened his moral compass to a roulette wheel once. <em> Whatever</em>. People used their moral compasses as a way to avoid making difficult decisions; they were more afraid of being seen as ‘evil’ or a ‘monster’ than the actual choice and its consequences. Sometimes doing the <em> right </em> thing meant being the monster so someone else didn’t have to; someone who you loved, who should remain untarnished by blood and death as far as possible. </p><p>With the help of a barrel and protected by the cover of darkness, Lambert killed the remaining two men, tied stones to their bodies and threw them into the Lixela river without a second thought. He’d learned many years ago that the trick was choosing to be the monster every time.</p><p>***</p><p>“There you are! It’s just arrived. Still hot,” Jaskier waved Lambert over to the corner table and the Witcher dropped into the chair with his back to the wall, bag at his heel. “Got you an ale. I could smell the vodka on your breath, so I think we’ll keep it light for the rest of the night.”</p><p>“You’re worse than Eskel,” Lambert grumbled around a mouthful of potatoes and chewy meat. Not the best stew he’d ever had but <em> fuck </em> was he hungry. “Seen him recently?”</p><p>“No, unfortunately,” a sad smile. “I saw Geralt about two months ago. He’s on the hunt for the Kingslayer, with the Blue Stripes of all units.” As long as he kept to well-known knowledge, it was perfectly fine to speak openly. The fact that Geralt of Rivia had been arrested for the murder of Foltest was, surprisingly, quite widely known. His <em> innocence </em> less so.</p><p>“Mmm,” Lambert threw his spoon down and grabbed his drink. “Pretty boy’s always trying to be the hero. Not his fault though.” He knocked back a swig of ale, and considered Jaskier’s raised eyebrow. <em> Oh shit</em>, had he just talked himself into complimenting Geralt? With an irate sigh, he cast his mind back to strong hands anchoring him to reality when he’d been ready to let the abyss swallow him. <em>Yeah</em>, he owed Geralt this one. “Too big a heart.”</p><p>“Ahh yes, of course, because big hearts are so <em> rare </em> among Witchers, aren’t they?”</p><p>“Yeah. Sold mine for a pint of vodka and a new Gwent deck.” Lambert smirked, and then cast a furtive glance towards the tavern door as it swung open, his shoulders bunching and foot moving out from under the table. <em> Alert. </em> </p><p>Jaskier noticed, and it wasn’t the first time. Lambert eyed every person that drew within two feet of their table; he kept glancing out the window and checking the second door. His escape route. Eskel and Geralt had always been <em> vigilant </em> when in towns, but never to this degree. Lambert was <em> anxious. </em> His pupils were narrowed and every loud sound - the scrape of a chair, a barked laugh, a shattering glass - made his jaw twitch in a subtle flinch. </p><p>The longer Lambert was in the tavern - surrounded by the noise, the light, the heat - the more uncomfortable he became. Shoulders seizing, head lowering, fists flexing. He tried his best to cover it by eating, drinking, and chatting about some of his most recent contracts in between mouthfuls. He even laughed once and cracked some lewd jokes he'd heard from a Kaedweni battalion passing through the evening before, but he was getting tenser with every passing minute. In fact, it <em> looked </em> like a panic attack without the hyperventilation and hysterics. </p><p>Of course a Witcher would quietly suffer an anxiety episode without so much as a verbal cue. Jaskier leaned back and left his seat. “Come on, I’ve had enough of people today. I’ve got a room upstairs. Bring your drink.” He didn’t wait for an answer, but wasn’t surprised when Lambert stepped through the bedroom door immediately behind him.</p><p>In the cool darkness, the bard watched his Witcher slowly unravel from the tight knot he’d bunched himself into. Jaskier collected the bag from his feet and dumped all of their belongings beneath the window, before he began to strip his clothes away wordlessly. Only once he was completely naked did he crawl beneath the scratchy linens. It was a relatively <em> clean </em> inn, close to civilisation, so a damn sight nicer than the bed he’d shared with Geralt two months ago. “Are you getting in, or are you going to stand there like a stone sentry all night?”</p><p>“Oh, uh -,” Lambert blinked owlishly in the darkness, and then dropped onto the foot of the bed to yank his boots off. Luckily he’d bathed recently, otherwise he’d <em> definitely </em> have said no and meditated by the open window instead; no way Buttercup would want to sleep next to a Witcher that hadn’t washed in a week. Thank the fiend’s explosive brain for that one. </p><p>Lambert folded his trousers and shirt over the back of the only chair, and then shimmied under the sheets. Jaskier gathered him straight away, and he sank gratefully into the embrace. Slender fingers circled on his bicep, and then his back when he turned to press his face into Jaskier’s chest, rubbing his nose through soft chest hair and breathing deeply. <em> So good. </em> With every full inhale, Jaskier’s natural musk chased away a little more tension, replacing it with a warm hum that started at the base of Lambert’s skull and spread down his back and through his limbs. <em> Better. </em></p><p>The silence settled over them like a blanket, heavy and reassuring; Jaskier held Lambert close until he’d all but melted. The flutter of eyelashes across his chest the only indicator that his Witcher was still awake. “Do you want to talk about it?” Voice soft as his caresses moved into Lambert’s hair.</p><p>“Not really,” Lambert murmured, arm tightening around Jaskier’s waist so that they were pressed together from toes to forehead. “It’s just - it’s too much at the moment. Dunno why. Never used to be. S’fuckin’ stupid.”</p><p>“You need to be more patient with yourself,” Jaskier whispered, watching amber eyes flutter under the gentle scratch of his nails when Lambert tilted into. “Hmm. I like your hair a little longer, you know. Makes you look all soft and fluffy.” They could try again in the morning. Clearly he wasn’t the only one who felt exhausted, and Lambert seemed calm enough now that he could ignore the existence of the rest of the world. </p><p>“‘M not soft and fluffy.”</p><p>“Alright, let me phrase it another way then,” Jaskier tightened his grip, tugging enough for Lambert to feel the prickle across his scalp. “There’s more for me to hold onto when I’m shouting snippets of poetry in between wrecked moans, while lost in pleasure. Does that flatter your masculine pride a little more?”</p><p>“Hmm, yes.” </p><p>Jaskier felt Lambert’s grin against his chest and chuckled. “Right, of course.” </p><p>Sword-callused fingers tapped at Jaskier's navel, and Lambert shifted, his breath holding for a moment. <em> He wanted to ask something. </em>Jaskier waited patiently.</p><p>“It’s Beltane tomorrow night.” Lambert said, finally.</p><p>“Yes. It is. You know, in all of the chaos at the moment, I’d almost forgot.”</p><p>“Well, uh -,” the Witcher squirmed again. “I know you probably have pretty girls queueing up for miles, but - um - I was wondering whether you’d -,” he cleared his throat, “- you’d want to spend it with me. Maybe.”</p><p>Jaskier had to bite his lip and hold his breath for a moment, because otherwise his heart was about to leap out of his mouth and make its new home in Lambert’s chest. But he knew his Witcher well, and any hesitance would be viewed as reluctance, so he scraped himself back together quickly. “Yes. I would love to. Will you be alright with the crowds?”</p><p>“Yeah, it’s outside, isn’t it? That’s fine. Just - buildings. And walls. Don’t - yeah, well. I’ve got the perfect place for us to camp. I’ve wanted to show it to you for ages.”</p><p>Jaskier smiled. “I can’t wait.” And <em> finally, </em> his dear Witcher relaxed into a pleased purr.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Summer Lovin'</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The swell of happiness in Lambert’s chest was so strong that it was almost <em> terrifying. </em> It carried him through the entire night and kept the dreams at bay; every time he stirred, a familiar scent and the grip of warm arms soothed him quickly back to sleep. The following morning, he woke before sunrise as he always did, but instead of rolling straight out of bed to get dressed, he spent half an hour lying on his front just <em> watching </em> the peaceful serenity on Buttercup’s face. The smile-lines at his eyes and his forehead were faint, but a reminder of the beauty of his happiness even in sleep; even the little bit of drool escaping the corner of his perfectly formed lips was fucking <em> adorable. </em> Lambert reached over and carefully mopped it away with his thumb, and then tucked his arm back beneath his chin for a little longer. He felt warm and relaxed in a way that he <em> never </em> did on the Path...</p><p>And then it hit him.</p><p>
  <em> Oh fuck, I’m in love. </em>
</p><p>His head lifted abruptly, eyes wide. Obviously, he’d <em> known </em> for years now. It was always there, quietly humming away in the back of his mind, or communicated in jest, or - but they were quite <em> big </em> words, weren’t they? Easier to focus on the good things and not think about the… <em> big things</em>. It had stopped being ‘just a good fuck’ a <em> long </em> time ago. Buttercup wasn’t just Eskel’s highly attractive partner that happened to enjoy fucking Lambert too. That’s what he’d told himself at first, because no one could actually <em> love </em> him outside of Eskel, and he wasn’t actually capable of loving something, was he? But you didn’t watch your fuck-buddy sleep like they were the most precious angel in the entire world, did you? You didn’t spill your heart effortlessly whenever they were near, or recite poetry for them despite not <em> really </em> understanding half the phrases, or feel lighter than air whenever they smiled at you, or feel safe in their arms when the world was squeezing your throat shut. Lambert pushed himself slowly up onto his hands and knees and slipped silently from the bed.</p><p>Right. So. He was in love. And it was Beltane <em> today</em>. The original plan of a drink, some laughter and some very loud sex in a forest was <em> not </em> going to fly. If this was <em> love, </em> then preparation was needed. Because even if Buttercup <em> didn’t </em> love him back, then… well, it’d hurt, but… he might? And that was worth some effort. </p><p>Lambert tiptoed across the room and pulled his clothes on, pausing briefly when Jaskier grumbled and rolled over, but continued when he didn’t wake. Swords thrown over his shoulder, he walked towards the door. And then stopped. <em> Buttercup would think he’d flaked out. </em> Lambert approached Jaskier’s pack and pulled out his  journal and pencils, flicking through until he found a fresh page for a quick note: ‘<em>Got some chores to do. Meet here at six chimes.’ </em> He paused. <em> ‘Sorry for writing in your journal.’ </em> </p><p>It was already warm and stuffy inside the tavern, and Lambert huffed a full lungful of fresh air when he stepped outside. After a quick bite to eat, he set about putting his quickly sketched plan into fruition. The first thing you needed to have for your lover on Beltane: <em> a gift. </em>The stalls and shops were already opening for the day so he was spoilt for choice. Where to start? Buttercup liked pretty things. So, jewellery, right? He wore rings, bracelets and necklaces. Had quite a nice collection for a travelling bard, actually. Easy enough. </p><p>
  <em> It really wasn’t. </em>
</p><p>Gold or silver? Which gemstone? What meaning are you trying to communicate? Just some of the questions the owner asked as he pawed over the various pieces on offer, and Lambert walked away overwhelmed and, more annoyingly, <em> without </em> a gift. Clothes were the same. Buttercup loved colour and soft things, but <em> again, </em> what was he trying to say? Do you want your love to wear this at formal events? Perhaps tonight? Is this for every day? Lambert ended up sitting on a dilapidated bench down a sidestreet with his face in his hands. <em> Why was this so fucking hard?  </em></p><p>So a declaration of love had to come with a statement. <em> Who fucking knew? </em> He leaned back and stared at the sky in despair. <em> Not the first fucking idea. </em> None of the pretty trinkets were quite <em> right. </em> They were the kind of thing you gave to young women, or foppish courtiers, to mark them as <em> yours</em>. They wore it and they told everyone who <em> gave </em> it to them, and it complemented their beauty because that was the most significant part about them. Pretty collars for simple pets. Shallow, skin deep and meaningless. <em> Not </em> suitable for Buttercup.</p><p>Some greater being must be smiling down on him - <em> about fucking time </em> - because just as he was about to give up, Lambert heard the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith’s hammer against steel and the remaining pieces of the puzzle slotted into place. Before he had time to think himself out of it, Lambert approached the array of different weapons laid out on a workbench not far from the blacksmith’s anvil. Knives, swords, a crossbow - that was quite nice, actually, might come back for that later - and everything in between. With war on the horizon, every man would be called up, and variety was needed; a thirteen year old boy could not wield the same weapon as a hardened veteran, even though they would both be expected to fight and die in the same way. “Can I help you, Witcher?”</p><p>Lambert looked up and rubbed his chin. “Looking for something well-balanced, light and easy on the wrist,” he paused. “Got anything in Temerian or Aen Seidhe steel?” </p><p>“Hmm. Not Temerian, but Aen Seidhe, yes. You’re lucky, I don’t generally make these anymore, not since all that shit started with the Order. This one was ordered but never picked up.” The blacksmith picked up a blade wrapped in leather from the back of his workspace and passed it over. </p><p>The grip was long enough for two hands, bound with black leather around a silver filigree, but light enough to be wielded in one. The pommel and quillons were both narrow, and the blade itself was slightly curved towards the end. Lambert unwrapped it and balanced the chappe on his index finger. <em> Weighted correctly. </em>He flicked it up and caught the hilt against his palm, span it over his hand, around his back and into his left - “Ploughin’ hell, you’re quick,” the blacksmith blinked - before returning it to the table. It was slender thanks to its careful design, and there were glyphs etched along the fuller; a well made weapon, nearly as sturdy as the meteorite-infused steel on his own back.</p><p> “I’ll take it. Got a sheath and belts?”</p><p>“Sure.”</p><p>With the sword secured and the belts attached, the Witcher slung it over his shoulder and headed out of town towards Shaerrawedd to set up camp. Lambert gladly handed over all the money he’d earned from the fiend kill. The horse could wait. The gift was perfect, because it said <em> exactly </em> what he wanted Buttercup to know. <em> Beneath that soft exterior, I see the warrior.  </em></p><p>***</p><p>Jaskier woke to an empty bed, which was unexpected and bloody disappointing. Nothing like riding Lambert first thing in the morning. It didn’t take him long to find the hastily scrawled note in his journal, and he ran his fingers fondly over the slanted text. Witchers on the Path all had their set routines. He knew the rhythms of life with Eskel and Geralt as naturally as he knew the strings on his lute, but he’d never travelled with the youngest wolf of Kaer Morhen. Knowing him, he had a fitness routine or something equally as energetic and exhausting. Jaskier was going to enjoy a leisurely breakfast and <em> then </em> he was going to go and pick some wildflowers to make Lambert a flower crown, because his Witcher would be more beautiful than any young maid gallivanting around the bonfires, and he needed to <em> feel </em> it.</p><p>With its roots in elvish tradition, Kaedwen <em> knew </em> how to celebrate its seasonal festivals in style. Jaskier walked through a town brimming with energy and excitement; the wreaths of spring leaves and flowers hung from every shop window and balustrade, and the surrounding fields were already dotted with piles of wood and brick-a-brac for bonfires. Men ran backwards and forwards with barrels of mead and ale; the butchers, bakers and housewives were working overtime to produce enough food, and priests in animal headdresses were donning face paint and priming candles. Many a whirlwind romance would begin tonight, and this far from Redania and the influences of Melitele and the Eternal Fire, Jaskier wouldn’t be surprised if there were hand-bindings and ancient vows too. A night of young lovers bounding over low fires, laughing, kissing, dancing, and then rushing off into the darkness to explore each other in privacy. <em> Jaskier would definitely be exploring a lot of Lambert after the festivities had ended at sunrise. </em></p><p>But first, the crown for his Witcher. The meaning of each flower was important, and needed to be selected with great care. Jaskier would, of course, take great pleasure in explaining each to Lambert later. He found some red salvia (forever mine), some white edelweiss (courage and devotion), dark pink zinnia - because they could not forget their absent loves somewhere on the Continent and Lambert was missing Eskel particularly -  some white yarrow and jasmine to emphasise the sweetness of the love they shared. He avoided the beautiful rows of lavender and honeysuckle; they would be too overwhelming for a Witcher to wear them all evening.</p><p>Leather fern and myrtle grew in abundance at the edges of the nearby woodland, and Jaskier foraged a handful of narrow, pliant twigs. With his materials gathered, he grabbed himself a mead, took a seat in the middle of all the festivities, and began to build his sweet love the perfect crown, humming softly to himself as he worked. </p><p>*** </p><p>Everything was <em> perfect. </em> Lambert was <em> ready. </em> Buttercup was going to <em> love </em> it. He hoped. The water at the top of the plateau had a unique property that he <em> knew </em> was stunning, and even if <em> that </em> wasn’t good enough, then the view of the elvish ruins and the rest of Kaedwen stretching beyond would be enough. Then he’d scrubbed in the water until he was pretty sure he’d removed the first layer of skin all over and his nails had never looked so fucking clean. Despite all of his preparation, there was a small well of trepeditation gathering in his chest as he climbed down. It wasn’t an expensive banquet, or silken sheets, or anything of what Jaskier was used to. But then, he’d been around Witchers for years now, he’d… was he just settling, or - ? <em> Oh fuck. </em></p><p>After much ruminating, he’d decided to leave behind his gambeson and armour, but take his swords. The gnarliest thing they would encounter tonight might be one of Jaskier’s rabid fans, but the familiar heft of the belts tugging down on his shoulder was comforting, even as his stomach did little backflips and his mouth went dry. No one would have access to their camp, and it was heavily obscured by foliage, so his belongings - and Jaskier’s gift - were safer here than they were in some flea-bitten inn.</p><p>At the bottom of the waterfall he caught sight of his reflection and grimaced. Well, not a lot he could do about the face, <em> but </em> - he lifted both hands and ruffled his hair into the tousled mess that Buttercup seemed to like, smoothing a few strands down so he didn’t look <em> exactly </em> like he’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. But close.</p><p>“Right, I’ve got this.” He informed the quiet woodland. With a deep breath, he headed into town.</p><p>The bonfires were alight, the warm night air filled with music and laughter, and Buttercup was waiting for him outside the tavern with a small audience gathered. Performing came as naturally to him as breathing air, and Lambert had always marvelled at how he weathered the weight of people’s attention with a bright smile. Hell, he <em> enjoyed </em> it. He’d heard this one before - ‘For the Dancing and the Dreaming’ - except it should be a duet, with Eskel filling in around Buttercup’s lighter voice. <em> Hmm. </em> Eskel would have been better at this, wouldn’t he? Big oaf had a heart the size of the fucking moon, and with all that reading and poetry. Lambert heaved a sigh, and lingered in the shadows outside the firelight. <em> Maybe this had been a bad idea. </em></p><p>But his pretty bard had spotted him, and as his palm settled over humming strings he stood for a brief bow and his crowd dispersed. Some even left behind a few coins and Buttercup swept them from the table into his palm, before waving Lambert over. “Enough for a few rounds anyway,” he smiled, “here. It’s traditional that a man makes his lover a crown.” He leaned over and placed the wreath of flowers carefully on Lambert’s head. </p><p>The Witcher blinked. “I - uh, I didn’t make you one.” <em> Lover? </em> Right, yeah, fuck. I mean, he’d used that before, but usually when there were <em> three </em> or <em> four </em> of them together. It was a <em> collective </em> word, but Lambert felt the weight of its singular use now and it made his head light. Furthermore, if <em> anyone else </em> had just placed a bunch of flowers on his head, he would’ve knocked ten shades of shit out of them, but it was the most natural thing in the world to duck slightly so that Buttercup could adjust it into place. <em> Alright, no, this was going… well. </em> It felt good. Natural.</p><p>“Oh, that’s fine. I made two,” Buttercup’s smile got somehow bigger - <em> fuck</em>, it was so beautiful - and he plonked one on his own head. The bard clearly took his look of bewilderment as a question, huffed and threw his hands in the air. “Well, I had to occupy myself with something while you were sorting yourself out. Come, let’s get a drink! They’re going to dance around the maypole before the sun sets, and I really want to see these acrobats, and -.”  </p><p>Buttercup grabbed his hand and pulled, talking faster than a charging fiend, and Lambert’s cheeks already hurt from the size of the grin on his face.</p><p>***</p><p>Jaskier had been worried that Lambert would suffer through the crowds for his benefit, but once they’d powered through several jugs of mead and watched the young flower girls dance around the maypole, his concern evaporated. His Witcher was <em> enamoured </em> by it all. He watched the young couples leap over the fires, laughed when a ring of dancing revellers managed to trip and fall over each other in hysterics during one of the ‘fairy dances’ around the bonfire and took great pleasure in explaining some of the rituals being performed by the townsfolk. </p><p>They sat at the edge of one in particular that held Lambert’s interest; a farmer drove his herd of cows between two bonfires while a witch waved her hands and shouted in Elder Speech. “I remember this one from when I was a kid. It keeps the cattle free from evil spirits and disease. Meant to make them fertile as well.”</p><p>Jaskier blinked. Eskel and Geralt <em> never </em> talked about their childhoods from before Kaer Morhen. He’d always assumed that they just didn’t <em> remember </em> anything. “Did it - did it work?”</p><p>“Course not. There’s no magic involved. It’s all superstition. Still funny to watch though, especially when they mix bulls with cows and have to stop them trying to have a shag halfway through.” He cast Jaskier a toothy grin and laughed; the bard’s heart fluttered. With his tousled hair and big golden eyes, his shirt opened so low down his chest that Jaskier could see the medallion at the bottom of it; Lambert was the most attractive man here by a country mile. One of the most attractive men Jaskier <em> knew</em>, full stop. And it wasn’t just skin deep. His smiles, his laughter, his youthful enthusiasm for the festival made him glow, and Jaskier realised that, as a Witcher, he’d probably sat on the outskirts of Beltane every year for decades. This might be the first one he’d <em> actually </em> been involved in. And when Jaskier explained the meaning of each flower in his crown, he thought Lambert was about to haul him off into the bushes for a hot and sweaty session against a tree. <em> Wouldn’t have said no. </em></p><p>They sat now within a circle of people; Lambert back on his elbows, head tilted to the side, watching two acrobats toss fire sticks in between daring flips and rolls. The crowd gasped and cheered, and Jaskier clapped his hands when one performer threw his flaming spear in the air behind him and performed a twisting flip before he caught it. “How brilliant.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Lambert shrugged. “Amatuers.” </p><p>“Oh, really? Well, why don’t you go and show us how it’s done, master Witcher?”</p><p>Lambert squinted and glanced down into the depths of the stein in his hand, calculating whether he was <em> drunk </em> enough. Apparently he was because in the next moment he was placing his drink down and kicking his boots off. “You know what, yeah, fuck it, hold my flower crown.” He swept the wreath from his head and placed it carefully in Jaskier’s hand, before rolling to his feet and jogging into the circle. The bard couldn’t hear the brief conversation, but the performers seemed happy enough to pass Lambert one of the double-ended torches, arms spread in challenge.</p><p>It started tamely enough. Lambert turned the stick around in his hands - at his side, above his head and around his back - to test the weight and balance of it; the same techniques he used when wielding the heavy steel blade currently recumbent at Jaskier’s side. His movements were swift enough to blur the flame into golden circles around him, and when he was certain of the dimensions of his instrument, he performed his first series of flips using just one hand to ground himself. His companions were instantly awed, and engaged him in friendly competition now they had realised he wasn’t all bluster. </p><p>Lambert copied every move flawlessly, at points adding his own flourish with an extra twist or by sending the wooden spear into the air to free both of his hands; Jaskier particularly enjoyed the tuck roll he managed when he gained enough height. Lambert was openly enjoying himself and it made Jaskier’s heart swell with a mixture of pride and adoration. Under the intensity of the bonfire and the ambient heat of the summer’s evening, his skin shone and the bard craned to catch every glimpse of his abdomen and chest when his shirt shifted and bunched; his mind wandered to the memory of those muscular thighs wrapped around his waist, and the ripple of that toned chest and stomach when Lambert was between his own. <em> Hmm. </em>Perhaps he wasn’t going to make it to sunrise after all.</p><p>Having exhausted his competition, Lambert took a very low, theatrical bow as he was presented to the crowd and then seemed somewhat taken aback when they actually <em> applauded </em> him. Uncertain how to deal with whoops and cheers, instead of heckles and <em> jeers</em>, he retreated while he was ahead and flopped back down at Jaskier’s side with a loud huff. “Told you. Amatuers.” He grinned, grabbed his drink, but stopped when it was halfway to his mouth, nostrils flaring to scent more of the musky undertones he’d just caught in the air. Golden eyes slid across to Jaskier, and the bard raised both eyebrows.</p><p>“I’d like to explore your physical prowess in ways that are not suitable for our current company.” Jaskier leaned across and placed Lambert’s crown back on his head, fingers ghosting across his neck in passing.</p><p>“Thought you’d never ask.” The Witcher pushed himself up to his feet again, snatched his swords and boots from the floor and pulled Jaskier up by the hand. “C’mon.” They headed into the forest.</p><p>***</p><p>The moment of truth. Lambert wasn’t sure whether the prickling on his skin was the clean sweat drying in the heat, or his own apprehension as he pulled Jaskier deeper into the shelter of the trees. The few miles to their destination felt like a thousand and Lambert kept glancing back to make sure the man whose hand he held was actually still <em> there, </em> looking serene and as beautiful as fucking ever, blue eyes luminescent and smile even brighter. He slowed as the ruins emerged through the trees, because Shaerrawedd was spectacular in its own right. Pillars and slabs of crumbling white marble lay slanted haphazardly throughout the clearing; the remaining vestiges of a once great and majestic palace. The stone was being steadily reclaimed by the forest, and the majority was bound in vines of white lilies. The scent was sweet, but fresh rather than cloying, and predictably Buttercup gasped in awe. “Lambert, this place…”</p><p>“Shaerrawedd,” he tugged Buttercup closer to the flowers and guided his fingers to the white petals; they were studded in teardrops of silver. “Means Child of Song. I - uh, I thought you’d like it.” And he knew he was <em> right </em> because there was that smile again; he <em>loved </em>it. His eyes were sparkling like the gods-damned stars above them. A large stone carving nearby, tilted at an angle from where the roots of the forest were beginning to reclaim it, drew Buttercup’s attention next.</p><p>“Who’s this? An elvish princess?”</p><p>“Aelirenn, the White Rose of Shaerrawedd. She led one of the last stands against the humans about two hundred years ago. The elders refused to support her, so she took only the young elves, and they lost,” Lambert ran his fingers over one of the nearby lilies with a sigh. “Vesemir remembers it. You should ask him about it next winter.” </p><p>“Everywhere I look, in even the most beautiful of places, I see the scars of war.” Buttercup sighed, and Lambert grimaced. <em> Fuck. </em>Had he just managed to ruin the entire mood? His heart nearly exploded in relief when the bard turned and seized his hand with a tight squeeze again.</p><p>“You said you wanted to show me something else?”</p><p>“Yeah, c’mon,” Lambert tugged him over towards the waterfall and peered upwards towards the plateau. “I - uh, need to carry you on my back. Is that alright?” Probably should have checked that first, but then that would have ruined the surprise. When Buttercup nodded, Lambert ducked out of his sword belts and lowered them carefully over narrower shoulders, moving the lute out of the way and pausing to adjust buckles. “Hmm,” a small smile. “Suits you.”</p><p>“<em>Everything </em> suits me, dear heart.” A wry smirk as he climbed onto the Witcher’s back, wrapping his arms and legs tightly about his broad chest. The waterfall tumbling to their right made the rocks damp and slippery, but Lambert was sure-footed and swift; even his crown remained firmly in place. All Jaskier had to do was grip on for dear life, not look down and before long Lambert was pulling them up onto a ledge.</p><p>A huge lake occupied the majority of the plateau, and Lambert had set up their sleeping area in the shelter of the trees nearby. The air was fresh and cool thanks to a second waterfall feeding the lake from another ledge above them, and in turn, the lake emptied out as the waterfall they had just climbed past. A constant cycle of water that would only dry up after the drought had settled in for a few weeks. Lambert watched Jaskier approach the edge of the water and waited. </p><p>“Lambert - ?” Hesitant, slightly awed. <em> His cue. </em> The Witcher kicked his boots off again and padded over to wrap his arms around Buttercup’s waist, chin resting on his shoulder, “Explain to me <em> how </em> there are <em> lights </em> in the water.” Everywhere the water was disturbed - the ripples created by the falls, the flutter of fish beneath the surface - a blue glitter shone across the surface. Like someone had snatched the stars from the sky and trapped them in the lake.</p><p>“It’s nicknamed sea sparkle. I’ve only ever seen it at the coast and here,” Lambert murmured. “It’s algae. Looked it up when we were at Oxenfurt, actually. Found the scientific name. Noctiluca scintillans. Completely harmless, but it reacts to physical disturbance. Watch.” He released Jaskier reluctantly and approached the edge, fingers of his left hand curling to send an Aard across the surface. The resulting shower of water glimmered with an ethereal blue light that continued outwards across the lake until the kinetic force had dissipated. Disturbed fish darted to and fro in trails of icy blue; a mirror image of the shooting stars that raced across the midnight skies. “I thought you’d li -.”</p><p>Lambert didn’t get to finish, because as soon as he turned around, Buttercup was pressed to his chest and kissing him in a way that made everything go weak. His tongue lapped easily into Lambert’s mouth and the Witcher was ready to drop at his feet immediately. <em> But - wait - one more - show him the -. </em> “W - wait, I’ve got - uh,” he managed to push the bard away with a <em> great </em> amount of effort, cupping that handsome face in the curve of his palm, “I did get you a present - I, um - didn’t want it to - come see.” Easier to show Buttercup than to find the words after a kiss like that.</p><p>They knelt together on Lambert’s bed roll, and he pushed his packs aside to retrieve the elvish sword stored beneath. He placed it down in front of Buttercup’s knees and they both gazed down at it for a long moment. <em> Maybe he should explain. </em> But Buttercup was already picking it up, his hand curling around the grip as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The steel hissed against the metal of the locket and the blade gleamed in the light of the moon behind them. “It’s - uh, well, I wasn’t sure what to get but,” he cleared his throat, “I didn’t want you to think that I - we - just think you’re a, uh - a pretty face. We think that you’re intelligent, and brave, and I - umm - the dagger you have is pretty <em> shit </em> too, so there’s that, I mean, if you don’t like it, there were other things - but I wasn’t sure if -.”</p><p>“I love it.”</p><p>“You do?” His voice was <em> definitely </em> the right pitch. Not high <em> at all. </em></p><p>“Lambert,” he slid the blade home again, fingers tightened around the leather sheath and the hilt. “I only have two material items in my life that I value. That old battered lute is the one that Eskel bought for me when we first started travelling together, the journal you wrote your note in - Geralt bought me that when he accidentally set fire to mine,” he smiled, ruefully. “And now I have something from you. It’s - it’s beautiful. This whole thing - the evening, this place - it's perfect.”</p><p>Lambert <em> didn’t </em> squeak. He fucking <em> didn’t. </em> And he’d fight <em> anyone </em> that said he did. Well, right after he was finished with the set of lips that pressed against his in yet another mind-bendingly good kiss. He just about had the awareness to move the sword out of the way before he lay his bard gently on the bedroll, hips slotting between his thighs as he mouthed down the side of his neck. </p><p>Those clever fingers were already under his shirt, nails raking down his ribs and through the hair on his chest, knotting in the chain of his medallion and tugging insistently. He pulled away for only a moment to yank the shirt over his head, flower crown placed carefully aside with it, before he returned to his worship. It took no coaxing at all to get rid of the doublet and chemise between him and the rest of Buttercup’s skin, and soon he was working down his chest with hungry, open-mouthed kisses. “<em>Fuck</em>, Lambert, yes, <em> please.</em>” Those same fingers now gripped in his hair as they had promised; Lambert lapped hot strips down his soft stomach and then picked open the laces at the front of his breeches.</p><p>Despite the urgent entreaties from above, Lambert was going at his own pace. Buttercup was a banquet in the barren emptiness of the Path, and he was going to savour every taste and scent. This was his own private sacrament to a man he deified in his heart. He took his time once breeches and braies had been kicked away, pressing his nose to the crease of a supple thigh and inhaling the musk untainted by expensive oils; clean sweat and pheromones that tightened the knot of desire deep in his stomach. Lambert ran his tongue across his lover’s groin, placed wet kisses over his balls and then mouthed up the thick vein beneath his cock, sucking lightly on the very tip. Buttercup was watching him, mouth open and blue eyes wide, and Lambert held his gaze as he swallowed him down.</p><p>“Dear Melitele, your mouth is - a gift, a dream - fuck - nnfhg.” The vibrations of Lambert’s moan rattled the words from Jaskier’s brain. He bound his fingers through tousled hair; his lover encouraged the roll of his hips and the possessive, rough grip on his head and soon Jaskier was fucking up into Lambert’s mouth with slow, steady thrusts that hit the back of his throat. Even through the haze of his euphoria and long, loud moans of praise, he kept his gaze on Lambert’s face, knowing full well his beautiful Witcher would endure discomfort to please him. There was none. Golden eyes rolled in bliss, and Lambert’s hands kneaded appreciatively at his thighs, gripping only when Jaskier’s cock twitched and emptied down his throat. Come dripped from the corner of Lambert’s lips as he pulled away, and Jaskier stared down the slope of his chest to marvel at the beauty of it while the prickles of his orgasm faded into something manageable; swollen lips, glossed eyes, flushed cheeks. <em> Delicious. </em> “Your turn. On your back.”</p><p>As Jaskier leapt across to his bags, Lambert kicked his trousers off and sat back as commanded. He barely had enough time to <em> properly </em>admire that round, full backside before his lover was on him again, straddling his thighs and pushing him down onto the bedroll. “I want to ride you until all you can do is moan my name.”</p><p>“Right<em> .” </em> He - what - there was literally nothing else to say. Lambert flopped backwards as Jaskier took his cock in one lubricated hand and arched to prepare <em> himself </em> with the other, and if that wasn’t the <em> hottest </em> fucking thing Lambert had ever seen, then he didn’t know what <em> was. </em>The little, breathy gasps as he pushed the first finger in, his grip on Lambert tightening as his spine arched. Lambert’s eyes couldn’t move quick enough to drink it all in and he bit back a moan as lute calluses teased across his glans.</p><p>“Gods, I want you inside me,” Jaskier moaned as he added another finger, stretching himself open. Lambert cock was thick, hot and <em> perfect </em> in his hand, and the need to feel its searing heat fucking into him became desperate. He wanted to be tight, wanted to watch Lambert disintegrate beneath him, feel every inch of the length and girth on offer, and be reminded of it every time he sat down in the next week, even when Lambert was half the Continent away. He shuffled forward, lifting his balls out of the way so that the Witcher could watch as well as <em> feel </em>Jaskier’s body consume him, and he guided Lambert’s cock home.</p><p>The pace was slow, Jaskier’s hips rocking as he eased himself down, Lambert’s hands stroking gentle encouragement over his thighs and watching him in reverent awe. Once he was fully seated, the Witcher held him still with a firm pressure on his hips and tilted his head back, eyes closed. He was revelling in the sensation - the tight, unrelenting heat of Jaskier’s body - and the combined scents of sex and desire rolling off both of them, letting himself be consumed and overwhelmed by it. The air was still and hot but for the occasional refreshing breeze disturbed by the tumbling waterfall behind them, and Jaskier felt a bead of sweat travel the length of his spine and nestle at the top of his ass. “Lambert, <em> please </em>- I need -.”</p><p>Lambert sat up and pressed a kiss to the centre of Jaskier’s chest. The bard groaned and spread his thighs further so that he could sink down and slide his tongue between those soft lips. He ground down with two slow rolls because he wanted to keep that heat deep inside him for just a moment longer. Big hands wrapped his hips as Lambert fell back again, heels braced; he began to direct the pace and Jaskier abandoned his initial desire for control, because being repeatedly impaled without agency on the gloriously thick cock in his ass was definitely the <em> better </em>option. He braced his hands on Lambert’s chest, finger raking through dark hair, and moaned loudly and wantonly, muscles clenching, as Lambert found his angle and fucked him with the relentless pace and furor of a Nilfgaardian marching chant. Another orgasm built at the base of his spine, raw, and harsh, but the sensitivity of his previous one lingered and kept it at bay. </p><p>When Lambert came Jaskier flopped forward onto his chest, his own cock pressed between their stomachs. “Not sure I’m going to be able to walk tomorrow.” He mumbled, and then gasped when the Witcher sat up and pushed him back down on his cock; he could feel the come dripping down the inside of his thigh from his stretched rim, but Lambert wasn’t finished.</p><p>“Want you to come again.” The Witcher offered the explanation almost apologetically when Jaskier stared at him in disbelief. He pressed their foreheads together as Lambert began to slowly, leisurely pump his cock to test the waters, sharing the same air, watching the light in each other’s eyes. It <em> really </em> didn’t take much. No sooner had the pace picked up, grip firm and smooth, did Jaskier come while lost in the two golden pools that consumed every part of his vision. He smashed their mouths together in the sloppiest, most uncoordinated kiss he’d ever given and Lambert fell into it with abandon, pulling Jaskier down to sprawl over him.</p><p>Jaskier grunted, the stretch in his ass only <em> just </em> the sweet side of sore as Lambert lifted his knees and kept himself seated. “Not ready to leave yet?”</p><p>“No, too good. Too perfect.” He purred, cupping Jaskier’s face in both hands now, sucking and nipping at his lower lip before kissing him deeply again. They lay like that until they were both breathless, hazy and exhausted. Lambert clutched his Buttercup close and rolled over carefully so that he rested on the sleeping mat below them. The first rag he grabbed out of his pack was still covered in fiend blood - <em> so that was a no </em>- and he ended up using a clean pair of his braies to mop them both down.</p><p>The night was close and their bodies were sheened in sweat, but Jaskier still curled into Lambert when he bedded down next to him, and the Witcher grinned into the night sky until he fell asleep, assured that he’d done well.</p><p>***</p><p>“Buttercup, wake up.”</p><p>“Wh-what? Lambert, it’s still <em> dark.</em>”</p><p>“Trust me, you don’t want to miss this.”</p><p>Jaskier sat up and immediately felt the ache in his ass. <em> I want to be tight, I want to feel him for a week afterwards. </em> Yes, well, we got that wish, didn’t we? Stupid fool. The bard rolled onto his hands and knees and then slowly, achingly, to his feet. Lambert was sat at the edge of the plateau in just his trousers, and Jaskier found the Witcher’s shirt to pull on before he staggered over to join him. “What’s going on?” He squinted down into the ruins, and his eyes widened.</p><p>There were at least fifty elves gathered around the effigy of their fallen queen. Each one held a candle in delicate hands and they stood in silence, with their heads bowed. Their long white robes hung perfectly still around their narrow shoulders, and Jaskier could see the glint of gold and silver woven into their hair. The sun was beginning to peek over the horizon, and one by one their faces began to lift towards it. Lambert tugged him down into his lap and Jaskier nuzzled gratefully beneath his chin. </p><p>“They do this every solstice. It’s a remembrance ceremony. Remembering what used to be, and how things could have been different. You’re probably the only human to have ever seen it,” he whispered, “And, um - I’ve been thinkin’ that I don’t ever want to be in their position. Regret not doing something, or wishing I’d done something different. So, I, uh - I need to tell you something that I should have ages ago.”</p><p>“Oh?” </p><p>“I -,” he tightened his arms, as if bracing himself. “I love you, Buttercup.”</p><p>Bracing himself for rejection, Jaskier realised, and his chest tightened briefly with sadness, only loosening when he realised he had the power to destroy that particular fear forever. “I love you too, Lambert. Always.”</p><p>“Mmm.” </p><p>Jaskier <em> felt </em> the happiness glow in Lambert’s chest, but before he could stoke it brighter, a low, ethereal hum rose from the assembled group below, filling the air with a gentle, timorous melody. As the sun rose above the horizon, the elves sang their beautiful song of remembrance and Jaskier just bathed in the powerful aura of Lambert’s love.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Midsummer Reunion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Naturally, when the opportunity came up to travel a little with Lambert, Jaskier <em> leapt </em> at it. It was only a month and a half until they were due to all meet in Posada, so it made sense to keep him company until then. The bard took great pleasure in drawing the comparisons between him and the other two wolves. Not as a competition by any means, but more as a private amusement. The unique character of his Witchers was one thing Jaskier loved to explore. </p><p>The differences were quickly obvious. Lambert had a manic energy that the other two had, perhaps, outgrown. He rose before day break, wasn’t generally content unless he was hunting <em> something </em> - even if it was just dinner - and never met a single ridge, small mountain or large tree that he didn’t want to climb. Jaskier once pointed out a rather beautiful flower at the top of a ledge and, minutes later, it was presented to him with a bright smile. They spent their evenings practicing with Jaskier’s new sword, laying on top of each other and staring at the sky or exchanging bawdy folk songs. Now, Jaskier saw himself as a connoisseur of <em> all </em> languages; there wasn’t a single foul word or curse he didn’t know. Or so he thought. Lambert taught him several Skelligen shanties that would make even the hardiest tavern-goer blush.</p><p>There were similarities too. Lambert was as organised and meticulous as both his fellow wolves; his equipment was fastidiously maintained, his alchemy bag immaculately organised and his knowledge of herbs, monsters and the wider mythos of the Continent thorough. Like Geralt, he enjoyed the wilderness over civilisation, and displayed a pronounced level of softness and understanding for anything nonhuman, intelligent and innocent. Like Eskel, he had a fondness for learning and one day Jaskier found him plucking inquisitively at his lute, if only to quickly pretend he was moving it out of the way when caught. He also carried one or two personal items that he mused over while they sat around the campfire. </p><p>One evening, Jaskier glanced up from his journal and saw Lambert turning one such item over in his hand; he had finished checking inventory and cleaning his armour, and always spent a quiet hour winding down. Tonight, it was through the careful consideration of a Witcher’s medallion. “Who did it belong to?”</p><p>Lambert looked up suddenly, his hand closing over the pendant automatically, until his thoughts caught up and realised there was no need to hide it. He leaned over and placed it over Jaskier’s journal so that he could take a closer look. There was a gryphon, not a wolf, emblazoned in the metal. “His name was Coën,” the Witcher said quietly. “He was a friend of mine. Killed in the last Nilfgaardian war fighting for the north at the battle of Brenna. Not how a Witcher’s meant to die.”</p><p>Jaskier sat up. “Lambert, I - that -,” he ran his fingers gently across it. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” </p><p>“Ah, s’alright. I was just thinking about what he’d have thought about you,” Lambert smiled toothily. “He was a good man. Not like me. More like, uh - Eskel, I’d say, big heart. Would do anything for anyone. He was a good laugh though, less serious.” He leaned forward to chuck another log onto the fire; Jaskier had tried to assure him that humans weren’t liable to freeze to death during the summer months, but his ever-attentive wolf had insisted on acquiring a huge pile of fuel every time they stopped for the evening. “Witchers aren’t meant to pick sides. We’re meant to stay neutral. Coën couldn’t. Said he had to do the right thing.”</p><p>“Very noble.” Jaskier plucked the pendant from the journal pages and tried to build an image of the man to whom it once belonged. Probably as young as Lambert, a smile like Eskel, a pair of amber eyes.</p><p>“Fucking stupid,” Lambert huffed. “He threw his life away for people that - they - they didn’t deserve it. The only side he should’ve been on was his own. That’s what’s expected of him, and he shouldn’t have tried to be anything more.”</p><p>“Yes, heaven forbid he should stand up for those that cannot defend themselves. He certainly wouldn’t have stepped in to defend that young lady in Hagge against her belligerent husband, helped free those miners in Vergen, or chased off those bandits from that elvish wagon-train we came across, would he? No, those sound like very <em> un-Witchery </em> things to do. Choosing to do the <em> right </em> thing all the time.” Jaskier turned the amulet over on his page, but he could feel Lambert glowering at him. </p><p>“That’s - those - it’s different.”</p><p>“It’s not though, is it?” Jaskier left his bedroll but didn’t bother to get fully to his feet; he crawled over to Lambert and shooed his arms out of the way to make room in his lap. “You’re angry with Coën for doing what he believed was right, you snark quite readily at Geralt for his heroics, and yet here you are cut from the exact same cloth. You <em> are </em> a good man. As Coën was, as Eskel and Geralt <em> are. </em> You just try to hide it through some kind of personal vendetta against yourself, pretend to be an asshole, but I’m wise to you, Witcher.” </p><p>“There’s no such thing as good men or bad men, Buttercup. Just choices. And I always <em> choose </em> my side. Sometimes people just happen to benefit,” Lambert heaved a sigh. “You’re full of shit,” a low grumble, but his smile was soft. “But you smell good, so you can stay.” He leaned forward to bury his face first in Jaskier’s hair and then against his neck, gathering him up until he lay back against one arm.</p><p>“Not full of shit,” Jaskier wriggled as stubble rubbed across his throat. “Full of truth. Just because it’s not what you want to hear, doesn’t make it sh-- ahh, don’t bite where my contacts can s-- ahh, alright… yes. Go on then.” There was no fighting the hand that found its way inside his breeches, cupping and stroking him into hardness; it just felt too good, too easy to melt into the heady warmth of someone so utterly devoted to him. He slumped against Lambert’s chest to enjoy the deep kisses that accompanied the firm, steady grip around his cock. “Mm. Are - are you going to let me return the favour this time?”</p><p>“No,” Lambert sucked gently on his lower lip and then nudged his chin away to gain access to his throat again. “Just want to feel you.” </p><p>“I’m going to get Eskel to hold you down when we reach Posada and - and you won’t have any choice. I’ll make you - you come so hard you’ll float for days, and you’ll - you’ll want it so bad.” It would be so much more effective if his voice didn’t tremor slightly because Lambert’s grip was just too <em> perfect </em> , and the way he used his thumb just behind the head was <em> criminal. </em>“Get Geralt t - to help, and -.”</p><p>“Mmhm. Promises, promises.” </p><p>Jaskier could feel the smirk against his neck and gasped when taut lips gave way to a warm lap of the tongue. He rocked slowly into the Witcher’s grip, moaning softly as he stared up into those big golden eyes, until his climax built and he grabbed onto the front of the open black shirt he so adored (mainly because Lambert popped all the buttons <em> just </em> for him while they were camping), hips jerking as he came. “ <em> Ooh, </em>Lambert.” His answer was another wide grin. The Witcher gently removed his hand and then, like the roguish scoundrel he was, wiped the contents of his palm on Jaskier’s breeches. “You - that - you’re doing my laundry tomorrow.”</p><p>“Buttercup, if I get to make you come and look that pretty every night, I’ll do your fucking laundry for an eternity.”</p><p>“Oh, be still my beating heart. Your romantic streak knows no bounds.”</p><p>Lambert laughed.</p><p>***</p><p>The problem with choosing a side is that, sometimes, it transpires that you chose the <em> wrong </em> one. </p><p>Three days before they were due to meet the rest of the pack in Posada, Jaskier stumbled across some intelligence that… complicated his position. There was a conspiracy against King Henselt’s life. The old brute was a bit of a tyrant, but he was decisive and strong - had proven the one stabilising influence in the last war - and was generally <em> respected, </em> if not liked. Without its king, Kaedwen would be plunged into a bloody civil war. Thousands of innocents would die. </p><p>Furthermore, with Temeria already destabilised, Redania - Jaskier’s <em> beloved </em> home kingdom - was sniffing around for expansion, so a strong counter to that ambition was needed. Radovid was an unpleasant man, by all accounts. He’d make a particularly savage warlord. Jaskier had narrowed the leaders of the conspiracy down to a handful of officers in the Kaedweni army, and was certain he’d soon be able to deliver his Temerian handlers some intelligence that would allow them to ward off any encroaching invasion. Then a name came up that struck him cold.</p><p>
  <em> Vernon Roche. </em>
</p><p>And not just once, but again. And again. And again. The further he dug, the more he came to realise that his list of names was farcical. The real mastermind behind the destabilising influence in Kaedwen, the man driving the rebels into open opposition, was his own <em> damned employer. </em> Lambert altered his route to allow Jaskier to spend time in Ban Ard and Ard Carraigh, escorted him to drops and meetings and provided a quiet, menacing presence in the background. It was a level of protection Jaskier was unused to, and perhaps didn’t really need, but having the Witcher close was a comfort as it became clearer just <em> how wrong </em> he’d been about Roche. He had believed that his work was helping <em> prevent </em> war when, in reality, everything he had fed back was being used to <em> hasten </em> it. </p><p>“I - I can’t believe I missed this.” Voice hoarse, Jaskier stared into the flames of their campfire. They were barely a day outside of Posada, but were both exhausted and Lambert had convinced him to stop for a good night’s sleep. “I knew that Foltest had some machinations against Henselt, but it was all <em> just in case </em>.”</p><p>“You can’t beat yourself up, Buttercup. Humans are manipulative pieces of shit. How were you supposed to know Roche was playing under the table as well as above it?”</p><p>“You don’t understand, my love. If Roche is discovered, then all of his men are guilty along with him,” Jaskier crumpled the letter in his hands and lifted it towards his face to try and stem the tears. “Including Geralt. They - if Henselt arrests him - he’ll - I -.” The image of Geralt on a scaffold seared through Jaskier’s brain like a hot iron, and it was all he could focus on, sending him into a tailspin of panic. <em> I just left him there with Roche. </em></p><p>“Easy,” Lambert pulled him into his lap, head tucked beneath his chin. “Breathe.” The sour scent of Jaskier’s distress permeated the air, and the Witcher held him close as he panted through it, arms tight. “Geralt’s a big boy. He can look after himself. It’ll be fine. And if it’s not, then Eskel and I go get him out of whatever clusterfuck he’s wound up in. That’s how it works. How it always has. And fuck, when it’s particularly bad, his highness himself comes down from Kaer Morhen to lend a hand.”</p><p>Jaskier sighed. “I - I just want to hold you all in my arms and see you all safe. Your retirement can’t come quickly enough.”</p><p>Lambert grinned, but a small part of him curled up in agony. Because Witchers <em> didn’t </em> retire, did they? But he wasn’t going to be the one to say anything. <em> Fuck no. </em> So he didn't. Just held Buttercup close until he fell asleep, and then wrapped him gently in his cloak to keep the insects at bay. A conversation for another day. Preferably another decade.</p><p>***</p><p>The moment he stepped into the tavern in Posada and saw Geralt and Eskel playing cards, Jaskier’s heart nearly exploded; he bounded over and wrapped his arms around both their heads to pull their faces to his chest. “Dear Melitele, I have never, <em> never </em> been happier to see you two.” The sun was setting and they’d spent an entire day walking in the heat. Jaskier knew he smelled <em> ripe. </em> He didn’t care.</p><p>Geralt used the opportunity to quickly glance at Eskel’s hand, but Eskel saw and glowered at him over Jaskier’s forearm; the impact slightly lost because of how squashed his cheeks were. They both managed to pry themselves loose from their amorous bard with a little bit of wriggling, patting him on the back. Eskel rose to greet Lambert with a one-armed hug, but pulled away quickly. “You smell worse than a goat’s ass.”</p><p>“Yeah, guess you have lots of experience with goats’ asses, don’t you?” Lambert smirked, only for his smugness to evaporate when Eskel latched onto his ear and began to haul him towards the stairs, pausing only to pass a few crowns across the bar to the innkeeper for a bath. “Ow, ow, Eskel, don’t punish me for speaking the tr--, <em> ow </em>.” </p><p>Jaskier smiled fondly after them and then flopped down into Eskel’s vacated seat. “Phew, he had you on the ropes there, Geralt,” he nudged through a few of the cards, and then grinned across at his white-headed paramour, who simply huffed and picked up his drink. “You look… tired.”</p><p>“It’s been a difficult few months. Roche has been a bit of a pain in the ass.”</p><p>“Do you - ?” Jaskier glanced at the other patrons. A drunk slumped over the bar, two elves in the far corner and a couple of rowdy farmhands playing Gwent. He leaned a little closer anyway, voice dropping to the limits of human hearing, but well within a Witcher’s. “Do you know about Henselt?”</p><p>“Henselt knows about Henselt,” Geralt sighed. “He killed the entire unit. All the Blue Stripes Roche brought with him. I managed to talk him down from revenge.”</p><p>“You - what -?” Jaskier blinked.</p><p>“Henselt found out about the plot and had all of Roche’s men hanged. Then Henselt tried to kill me during the siege at Vergen, Roche arrived, I convinced him it was a bad idea to kill one of the few remaining kings of the north. Thousands of innocent people would die; Henselt has no heir, there would be civil war.” Geralt rattled it off like he was recounting a particularly boring ghoul hunt. Jaskier sat there, open-mouthed, but sensed it was perhaps a defence mechanism against something else. “I’m heading to Loc Muinne in a few days. Following Triss’ trail.” </p><p>“I’ve heard Loc Muinne mentioned. There’s to be a peace summit - leaders of the northern kingdoms, and mages - correct?”</p><p>“Mmhm.” There was a heavy sadness in his eyes, and he stared down at the mead in front of him like a man sentenced to the gallows.</p><p>“Geralt, what’s wrong? You saved thousands - <em> thousands </em> - from dying by intervening. Furthermore, Henselt is probably the only king that stands between Nilfgaard and round three of their expansion.”</p><p>“None of the men Henselt hanged were involved in the plot,” he murmured. “And Henselt violated Ves, Roche’s lieutenant. He’s a pig, and a beady-eyed thief, with only twisted ambition in his heart. He deserved to die. Yet again, I was forced to choose between two evils, Jaskier.” He finished his drink, gathered the Gwent cards from the table and stood up. “Come on. Let’s go to bed. Then I want to spend a few days either pissed or fucked out of my head.” And apparently didn’t care who heard it. Jaskier sighed, grabbed his bag off the floor and followed him upstairs.</p><p>When they arrived, it was to see a very disgruntled Lambert hunched in a bath with Eskel rubbing soap into his hair. Well, Lambert was <em> trying </em> to look displeased - his knees hugged to his chest, arms wrapped around them and the occasional quiet growl - but it didn’t take a Witcher’s senses to see just how much he was actually enjoying it; big eyes and goosebumps all down those folded arms. Eskel grumbled, “Seriously, when was the last time you bathed? How did Jaskier let you go for so long smelling like this?”</p><p>“Room for one more?” Jaskier shed his clothes unceremoniously and hopped over the lip of the tub to land with a splash. The water sloshed over the edge behind Lambert, and Eskel’s shirt and trousers were soaked. Totally accidental, not planned in the slightest. “Oh, sorry. You should probably take those off to dry.” Jaskier cooed, and Lambert smirked into his knees: <em> well played, Buttercup. </em> </p><p>“You two are a menace together,” Eskel grumbled, rinsing his hands in the water before he stood up to undress. Geralt, having witnessed the subterfuge, cut out the middleman and stripped his own before kneeling down behind Jaskier and throwing another washcloth into the bath.</p><p>“Umm, is this - is this happening right now?” Jaskier tilted his head back and stared up into the two golden eyes that blinked down at him. “Am I about to be bathed by a shirtless Geralt of Rivia?” </p><p>“Hm,” Geralt smiled and pressed his lips to Jaskier’s as he leaned forward to ring the washcloth and push some soap into it. “You smell as bad as Lambert does. Probably couldn’t smell him over yourself.”</p><p>Jaskier sighed and gazed across at his companion-in-stench. “Well, I feel thoroughly romanced this evening. You?”</p><p>“I’ve heard worse pick up lines,” Lambert commented, wryly. “Probably <em> used </em> worse myself.”</p><p>“You have,” Eskel poured a jug of water over Lambert’s head, and the Witcher hunkered down in irritation as his hair plastered over his eyes. “My personal favourite was: ‘hey there, do you know I actually carry <em> three </em> swords’?”</p><p>“That one actually wo--.” </p><p>“No, he’s used worse,” Geralt cut in as he massaged his fingers into Jaskier’s hair. “Hmm, what was it? ‘I may not be a djinn, but I can make all your dreams come true’.”</p><p>Eskel hummed, smoothing soap down Lambert’s back and then under his arms until he squirmed out of his grip. “Ahh, no, I forgot about this one: ‘are you a sorceress? Because whenever I look at you, everyone else just disappears’.”</p><p>“I hate you both.” Lambert growled, and watched Jaskier almost drown as he hunched over, wheezing. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Buttercup. Didn’t hear you complaining about my charms during Beltane.”</p><p>The bard wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and rubbed Lambert’s knee. “No, I didn’t. I have never been rendered so thoroughly breathless with love.” He grinned, and Lambert threw his arms over the edge of the tub, looking rightfully smug. Eskel rubbed soap through his stubble and down his chest until his head leaned back, and then pressed a kiss to his lips finally. Geralt leaned his chin on Jaskier’s shoulder with an appreciative hum to watch; Eskel’s fingers raked up over Lambert’s abdomen and stroked a nipple between them, before he drew away.</p><p>“Tomorrow. It’ll be better,” Eskel passed him the washcloth and stood to depart. “I also want to hear about Beltane. It was clearly a night to remember.”</p><p>“You’re such a fucking cocktease,” Lambert grumbled, cupping water with his hands to rinse off the rest of the soap. “Yeah, I was a regular Prince Charming. You’ll want to take notes.”</p><p>“I suppose those are your thoughts too?” Jaskier purred at Geralt and nuzzled into the side of his neck, only for him to pull away and finish rinsing out the rest of the soap from his hair. The bard sighed in mock disappointment, but leaned back into the strong hands that held him.</p><p>“Hm,” Geralt glanced up at Eskel, and seized his opportunity. “I just do what daddy tells me.” In those low, gravelly tones, it was just <em> too </em> good, and Jaskier nearly <em> choked </em> on his laughter, while Lambert tilted his head back and guffawed.</p><p>“<em>Fuck </em> you all.” Eskel growled and threw himself dramatically into the centre of the bed, back turned.</p><p>It didn’t take the others long to join him. Jaskier and Lambert wriggled around to attend to more delicate areas, although Geralt was <em> very </em> keen to assist. In the end, he left them to dry off and stripped away the rest of his clothes before sliding into bed behind Eskel, one arm sloping over his waist, lips pressing to his back. “Don’t sulk.”</p><p>“I don’t sulk,” Eskel grumbled. “That’s <em> your </em> thing.” He reached out and seized Lambert by the waist when he seated himself on the edge of the mattress, ignoring the brief growls of protest and burying his face in scruffy, damp hair until the Witcher melted back against him with a contented sigh.</p><p>“He has your number there, Geralt.” Jaskier teased as he hopped in and draped himself over Geralt’s back, humming contentedly into his hair, scented with the soaps and oils he’d insisted they all purchased because they needed to look after them-damned-selves. “I’ve missed you. All of you.”</p><p>“Hm.” Geralt wound his fingers around Jaskier’s hand and brought it around his front, sandwiching it between his chest and Eskel’s back. He wanted to be thoroughly wrapped in those he loved, and perhaps the bitterness of the last few months would fade into something more palatable. A deep serenity always settled over his heart and mind when his pack was near, and Geralt listened contentedly to the soft snores and snuffles that filled the room until sleep took him too, the ghost of a smile still on his face.</p><p>***</p><p>It was early morning, but the sun hadn’t risen. The room was still cool and Lambert kneaded at the toned stomach underneath his hand, his legs tightening around the one he’d captured at some point during the night; he was hard, not unusual in the morning, and the muscular thigh he rutted against twice was firm, warm and felt <em> fucking amazing. </em> Then the rest of his brain began to tune in and he opened his eyes to stare up at Geralt, who was watching him with <em> more </em> than passing interest, Lambert stared at those hazy golden eyes in confusion, held his breath, then, “Morning.”</p><p>“Hm,” Geralt raised an eyebrow, and then his head fell back with a soft moan, the leg in Lambert’s grip pushed out against him, and Lambert tilted his head down. <em> Fuck, how had he slept through this? </em></p><p>Eskel knelt between Geralt’s thighs, with both of his hands occupied. One thrust three fingers slowly into Geralt’s eager body, his hips canted, while the other stroked languidly up and down Jaskier’s cock; the bard wrapped around Eskel’s chest, lips locked in a messy kiss as he hung from Eskel’s shoulders. Lambert tried to sit up, but Geralt kept him secure. The big hand draped over his hip shifted up until it settled below Lambert’s jaw, and pulled him up for a gentle kiss. “Don’t go far, little wolf.” Voice husky and warm with promise, Lambert swallowed and shifted from the bed only when Geralt began to sit up.</p><p>Jaskier curled back against the pillows as Geralt settled over Eskel’s lap, and turned him to the side. Big hands around Geralt’s hips, Eskel craned up to bite at the throat bared to him as Geralt shifted his feet for purchase. Lambert watched Eskel’s cock press into Geralt's ass; the Wolf grunted, lowering his hips slowly to take more at a gradual pace. He grimaced at the stretch, gripping Eskel’s shoulders, and Lambert couldn’t help but smirk. There was something fairly satisfying about watching even the White Wolf struggle to take Eskel. <em> Just like us mere mortals, Geralt. </em>It was just as good to watch that thick cock work into him though. Geralt had a seriously good ass; round and full, it flexed and clenched as he rocked himself down with low, appreciative moans. Jaskier watched with his bottom lip between his teeth, blue eyes hungry, and he shuffled forward to slip a hand between them and take hold of Geralt’s cock. </p><p>Once he was slipping down to the hilt with each thrust, Geralt let go of Eskel and leaned until his upper back rested on the bed and his head hung off the edge. Eskel adjusted to keep a steady rhythm, legs splaying lower. His lips parted as he admired the sprawl of muscle before him and Jaskier, who replaced his hand with his mouth; plush lips sucked greedily at Geralt’s head before taking him in fully, and Eskel swore quietly at the breath-taking sight of it. It was wet and messy, saliva and precum dripping down Geralt’s shaft to pool at his balls, and Eskel tilted his head back to regain composure because if Geralt kept clenching his ass like he was, then Eskel’s reputation was going to <em> suffer. </em></p><p>Lambert would have been quite happy to watch, his fingers gliding idly down the length of his cock as his lovers folded over each other. Sometimes there was nothing better than a cheeky bit of voyeurism, because <em> fuck </em> this was hot, but Geralt had his eye on other prizes. Now watching Lambert upside down, Geralt gave him a come hither crook of the finger that nearly floored him, but he knew better than to disobey, and staggered over on weak knees. Geralt’s hand slipped around his thigh and pulled him close.  Lambert's cock hovered over his face, and he was eyeing it with hunger. “I believe you made a request last winter that I didn’t fulfill.” </p><p><em> How the fuck was he able to speak with Eskel buried in him, and Jaskier sucking him off like it was his sole reason for existence? </em> Then Lambert remembered this was the same man that had enjoyed a foursome with a <em> dragon </em> and two Zerikannian warriors, among a long list of other exploits, and suspended his disbelief. One knee rested on the edge of the mattress and Lambert hesitated, but Geralt was having none of it and tugged him down until his cock slipped into his mouth. </p><p>“Fuck.” Lambert gasped as his head slid down the flat of Geralt’s tongue to the back of his throat; the grip on his thigh nudged again, with a low growl rumbling from the chest beneath him. <em> Yeah, of course. </em> Geralt could be stuffed full at both ends and still be in control. <em> Standard. </em> Lambert moved his hips slowly, moaning as his head notched passed Geralt’s gag reflex for the first time. “<em>Geralt.</em>” Apparently his needy whine was pleasing, because the lips around him stretched into what could only be a wry smirk. It was difficult to know where to look, Lambert’s head hung low as he watched the bottom of Geralt’s stubbled jaw work, throat rippling as he swallowed, and then there was the vision of the slow, sensual roll of Eskel’s body as he worked himself deep, one hand combing through Jaskier’s hair as it grew damp with sweat. </p><p>Lips swollen and cock heavy between his legs, Jaskier lifted his head and craned to place one final kiss on Eskel’s lips before he shuffled from the bed and grabbed the oil from where it had shifted under a nearby pillow. He fluttered his fingers over Lambert’s shoulder, down his back to his ass, which he squeezed and kneaded. “Wanna’ fuck you, wolf. Like I promised.”</p><p>“Y - yeah, please.” Lambert keened, back arched. Jaskier chucked the jar back onto the bed and slid two fingers over his entrance, tips notching in his rim only briefly before one pushed inside. Geralt growled in appreciation and shifted, forcing Lambert’s hips lower and holding them fast with both hands, keeping him primed for Jaskier while still enjoying the taste of the cock in his mouth, sucking his head and swirling his tongue as he sank his lips right to the base. “F - fuck.” Lambert’s hands slipped from the sweaty chest beneath him to the bed either side, because if he gripped any harder he was going to crack through Geralt’s ribs. <em> Fuck, Geralt’s cock looked good. </em> But he was being held fast and Jaskier’s fingers were stretching him open. </p><p>As if Eskel could <em> hear </em> his internal monologue, he lifted one hand from Geralt’s hips and smoothed up his cock, slicking through the liberal amount of precum dripping down onto his stomach. Wet fingers then pushed into Lambert’s mouth, and he moaned around them. Eskel pressed down on his tongue, thumb gripping beneath his jaw just as Jaskier lined up and pushed the first few inches of his cock inside, and Lambert nearly crumbled. Eskel growled at him. “Such a good boy. Take it all.” </p><p>Geralt was getting close; Eskel could feel it in the spasm of his ass every time he thrust deep, hips connecting loudly with wet skin, and the flick of his cock as it dribbled on his stomach. His pale skin flushed red, the veins on his neck strained as he kept Lambert deep in his throat. Jaskier looked beautiful, with his head thrown back intermittently as he garbled through a poem that barely made sense, blue eyes returning to the sight of his cock thrusting into Lambert’s ass, thumbs spreading him wide so that he could see every inch disappear. It was probably the sight of his bard that finally hooked Geralt over the edge, because his body seized tightly around Eskel and his cock sent hot streaks of come across his own stomach and chest. </p><p>Eskel pulled his fingers from Lambert’s mouth, “Clean it up.” The moment Lambert leaned over to lap Geralt’s spend from his stomach, Eskel hit his peak and ground deep into Geralt’s ass, still clenching through aftershocks. He grabbed a handful of Lambert’s hair and yanked him upright for a kiss. The combined taste of his two lovers  was heady, and Eskel released Geralt’s hip to cup the stubbled jaw before him, easing his ferocity and rewarding the unflinching submission to his request with gentle laps of his tongue and soft moans of pleasure. Lambert shook in his grip, gasping into his mouth and Geralt gagged briefly before gaining enough composure to drink down what he was given.</p><p>“He walks in beauty like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies,” Jaskier huffed and collapsed over Lambert’s back, mouthing the beads of sweat beading down his spine, and then nuzzling a kiss. “Did I just come last? As a man in my late forties, I take that as a <em> win</em>.” Eskel laughed and withdrew from Geralt gently, easing his lover's legs down to the bed, and watched as Lambert flopped down next once Jaskier had released him.</p><p>“What’s the rest?” Geralt stayed <em> exactly </em> where he was, voice husky and low, golden eyes flickering up to Jaskier expectantly.</p><p>“The rest?” Jaskier, whose legs were now essentially boneless, flopped into the small gap between the two sweaty Witchers already sprawled out, and admired Eskel from afar as he stretched out on his side, fingers stroking softly up and down Geralt’s thigh.</p><p>“Of the poem.” Geralt huffed, impatient. As if he <em> always </em> asked Jaskier to recite prose and <em> this </em> time was no different.</p><p>After he got over the initial <em> shock </em> of the request, Jaskier cleared his throat. "And all that’s best of dark and bright, meet in his aspect and his eyes. Thus mellowed to that tender light, which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shadow the more, one ray the less, which waves in every raven tress, or softly lightens o’er his face; where thoughts serenely sweet express, how pure, how dear their dwelling-place,” he stroked his fingers over Lambert’s face, for this set of raven tresses referred to the romantic wolf that had glowed so beautifully in the firelight during Beltane. “And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, so soft, so calm, yet eloquent, the smiles that win, the tints that glow, but tell of days in goodness spent, a mind at peace with all below, a heart whose love is innocent.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Eskel purred. “Sounds like Beltane was well spent.”</p><p>“Oh, he did very well.” Jaskier smiled down at Lambert’s rather drunken grin, and then proceeded to thoroughly destroy his reputation as an asshole by outlining every single romantic, soppy thing he did that evening.</p><p>***</p><p>The rest of the Midsummer celebrations passed in much the same fashion as they had done in previous years. The Witchers got outrageously drunk several times. One of Jaskier’s highlights was trying to play Lambert at Gwent with Geralt <em> leaning </em> on his head and loudly reading out his cards while suggesting plays. When Eskel had stumbled over and suggested that he was being unhelpful, the disagreement had devolved into a tussle, and then an unconscious heap on the floor with Geralt sprawled over Eskel’s back. Lambert had heroically thrown them over his shoulder - one at a time, he wasn’t a fucking martyr - and carried them to bed, staggering and almost falling down the stairs at least four times each, and telling both they needed to go on a fucking diet. </p><p>The problem with their reunions was that they always came to an end, and Jaskier felt his heart break as he watched Geralt disappear over the horizon, knowing full well that he was heading straight back into a world of intrigue and malice that threatened to tear him to pieces. Lambert headed towards Aedirn; a recent battle meant necrophages, and he’d quickly be able to afford a horse after a handful of pest control contracts.</p><p>And Eskel sat there quietly on Scorpion’s back until Jaskier turned to face him. “I’m heading to Redania,” he spoke softly, “Care to join me?” </p><p>Jaskier was <em> done </em> with Kaedwen. <em> Done </em> with its lecherous king, <em> done </em> with Roche, just <em> done</em>. It was time to take a break from espionage. Eskel had read the fatigue in Jaskier's very soul during their four days together, because he had doted on each of them; embraced them, kissed them, comforted them in the way only he seemed to know how, and the only one who didn't seem quite ready to leave was his feral cat. The bard smiled, took his hand and threw himself up into Scorpion’s saddle. “Please. I could do with some familiar horizons.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Eskel clicked his tongue and Scorpion set off towards the west. “So, has he taught you to use that sword properly?”</p><p>“I’ll have you know I already <em> knew </em> how to use this sword properly.”</p><p>“Mmm. I’m looking forward to seeing that.”</p><p>“Eskel, you're a filthy old man,” Jaskier tightened his arms around his Witcher’s waist, despite the press of the swords between them. “And I love you.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Jaskier's poem is "(S)he Walks in Beauty" by Lord Byron (because we all know it's about a bloke, Georgie-boy).</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Summer Fades</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>That year had been particularly difficult for Eskel. He’d spent the majority of the spring and most of the summer in the mountainous regions of Hengfors, Kovir and Poviss. The villages there were so remote and difficult to access that they went years without seeing a Witcher, and they welcomed him with food, beer and gratitude when he arrived. Unfortunately, that didn’t often translate into decent pay, and Eskel’s equipment was beginning to look shabby and poorly maintained by the time he descended through Redania and headed to Kaedwen for the midsummer reunion.</p><p>The compass had been a comfort. Every night he sat on his bedroll and recited their names with the bronze case pressed to his fingertips. His voice sometimes barely audible over the shattering thunder of the summer storms. <em> Jaskier. Geralt. Lambert. Vesemir. </em> Many nights he went through the list three or four times just to watch the arrow spin in their direction. Confirming and re-confirming. Geralt had said that it would spin continuously if the person couldn’t be found. If they were dead. Perhaps a brutal and unnecessary thing to share from an outsider’s perspective, but Geralt <em> knew </em> Eskel. When the arrow settled after he said one of their names, it provided Eskel with reassurance. <em> Alive. I will see them again.  </em></p><p>“You feel a little bit thin, love. I noticed it in Posada.” Jaskier said one evening as he burrowed his way under Eskel’s cloak, followed quickly by his shirt. The Witcher grunted as cold fingers skittered over his ribs and then settled under his arms where it was warmest. The temperate had dropped over the previous three nights and this one was following that trend. Soon it would be the start of autumn and Jaskier would spend every night curled up between Eskel’s warm bulk and the campfire.</p><p>“Just been a bit scarce recently. Lots of work, not a lot of pay.” He pulled his lover into his lap and nestled his face against the crook of his neck. The compass had been a comfort, of course, but <em> this. </em> Eskel had <em> missed </em> this. Having Jaskier curled around him, with the fire crackling away and the lute propped nearby. It was a small slice of heaven that he could enjoy every evening; he didn’t begrudge his brothers it. Not at all. When Jaskier had told him about spending time with Lambert, Eskel’s heart had swollen with joy. But having him back, even just for a little bit, Eskel practically purred with happiness every hour of every day. The ball of bard in his lap quivered with a chuckle, “What?”</p><p>Jaskier hummed. “I love it when you flop like this. It makes you very cuddly.”</p><p>“Flop?” Eskel cracked one eye, because both had drifted closed as he’d draped himself around his bard.</p><p>“Mmhm. You go all relaxed, you purr, you’re all warm. Like a big, soft teddy bear.” Jaskier snuggled closer, and then stifled a squeak as Eskel shifted him from his lap and finally sprawled out on the bedroll; he got comfortable, and Jaskier pushed in close again with a contented sigh. “I love you, Eskel. I’ll get you fed back up in no time.”</p><p>They fell asleep with the crackling fire, Scorpion’s soft snores and the ambient noise of the woodland as their lullaby.</p><p>But in the early hours of the morning, Eskel woke to the noise of bated tears. His arm tightened around Jaskier’s waist and he turned his face down into brunette hair. “Jaskier,” his voice still thick with sleep, he rubbed the side of his face into his shoulder to clear his eyes. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>“S - sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you, I - it’s stupid,” the bard hiccuped and cleared his throat. It was so easy to let himself go in the safety of Eskel’s arms, and this time ‘letting go’ had meant allowing all of his suppressed anxiety to well to the surface in the silence of the early morning. “I’m just feeling a bit… overwhelmed.” </p><p>“Talk to me,” Eskel reached above him and grabbed one of his packs to prop his head on so that he could look down and see Jaskier’s face, and two watery blue eyes rolled up to look at him. </p><p>“I just - it’s, sometimes I want to go back to how it was twenty years ago. Just wandering the wilderness with Geralt, and my lute, without <em> everything else</em>,” Jaskier tugged Eskel’s arm tighter around him. “And then I realise if that happened, then I wouldn’t have you, or Lambert, or really Geralt - and - I feel <em> vile </em> - I just -.” He drew in a stuttering breath, bringing his tears under control. “I just want our time at Kaer Morhen to last forever. I don’t want to keep saying goodbye to you - and I thought I was on the <em> right </em> side - you know, like last time - but Roche was just trying to start a war and Geralt - Geralt’s being forced into politics and subterfuge and - and he <em> hates </em> it - and I couldn’t stop it, and then when he went into that forest, and came back beaten up - and what if it happens again? What if they kill him this time? And - .”</p><p>It was coming out as a stream of consciousness, without any real direction or chronology. Eskel didn’t question, he just listened, his hand now sweeping up and down Jaskier’s arm. He told Eskel <em> everything. </em> About nearly being hanged for debauchery and the look on Geralt’s face, about being cornered by thugs in an alleyway and Lambert’s rescue, about following dead end leads, about Roche, about his own feelings of inadequacy, about Geralt wanting to send him back to Oxenfurt because he would be <em> in the way </em> . By the time he was finished, he was gasping for breath and the sobs were dry and hoarse. Eskel just… <em> held </em> him.“I just - I can’t protect you. I - I thought that - I don’t know what I thought, Eskel. I just - I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Eskel hummed softly. “For what?”</p><p>“For not - not being good enough. It seems like, no matter how hard I try to do good, I just end up creating more problems.”</p><p>“Well, that’s objectively not true. There are a few issues with your narrative, if I may?” The Witcher shuffled up a little higher and reached for the waterskin tucked in one of his saddlebags. He pulled Jaskier upright and placed it in his hands; the bard just nodded and drank as directed. “Firstly, Geralt didn’t want to send you away because you would be a nuisance. He wanted to send you away because he’d just been bested by another Witcher and was feeling inadequate himself. Unable to protect you, so it’s best if you’re nowhere near him, or so his logic goes. Geralt does that, unfortunately. It’s a habit of his. Haven’t you noticed?”</p><p>“Yes, I suppose…”</p><p>“Good. Secondly, wishing for simpler times isn’t a crime. Doesn’t mean you’re wishing away all of what you have, just all of what you don’t want,” Eskel paused, taking the offered waterskin to knock some back himself before tying it off again. “I do it all the time. Sometimes I wish Geralt and I were back in my bunk when we were training. Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t fight any power that tried to take you and Lambert away from me.” He stroked a hand down Jaskier's back. "And finally, the debauchery issue... hmm, I think we should all take a bit of responsibility there. We haven't quite discussed... boundaries. We should have that conversation in the winter."</p><p>"I've been faithful to just the three of you. I wasn't really sure, and if I'm brutally honest, haven't even seen anyone that compares," the bard missed the glowing, pleased smile on Eskel's face, because his own was buried in the Witcher’s chest; his eyes closed when gentle fingers carded through his hair. “Gods, I feel like such a child. So many more important things are going on and I’m just blubbering.”</p><p>“One person’s sorrow doesn’t cancel out another’s, Jaskier. Don’t invalidate what you feel,” Eskel tilted his head back and gazed up at the stars. They were beginning to fade as the sun peeked above the horizon to the east. “I think you just need some time off. We’ll head towards Oxenfurt, and I’ll - I don’t know, I’ll find work in the local area. Redania always seems to have issues with wraiths and cursed ones. Must be something in the water.”</p><p>Jaskier chuckled. “We’re just overdramatic, I suppose. You’d do that for me?”</p><p>“Of course. I do have a fee.”</p><p>“Why, of course. I’d never expect a Witcher’s services for free.”</p><p>“I want to come back to your dormitory at least once a week for a bath, a soft bed and my quota of bard-time.”</p><p>“Sounds like a fair exchange.”</p><p>“Good,” Eskel stifled a yawn. “Now go back to sleep, I’ll go find some breakfast in a few hours.” He flopped - <em> no, </em> laid back with the dignity of a man befitting his age and profession - against his packs and closed his eyes. Jaskier was just thankful for a slightly more <em> sedate </em> pace of life. He loved Lambert, but the man had more energy than he really had the right to. They slept until the sun shone through the canopy and Scorpion chewed at Jaskier’s hair.</p><p>***</p><p>They were still several weeks out from Oxenfurt and, in between the contracts that Eskel found in the villages they passed through, their time was occupied by one of two things: singing, or sparring. It was an odd dichotomy of hobbies, but Jaskier realised he found both equally as exhilarating. There was also the added benefit of both ending with one of them pinned beneath the other - Eskel simply couldn’t <em> handle </em> the sight of Jaskier with a sword in his hand for longer than an hour before the bard was up against a tree with bites lacing his throat, and the sound of Eskel’s baritone after so long was potentially the most powerful aphrodisiac Jaskier had ever encountered.</p><p>They circled each other now. Jaskier was sweating, but the Witcher, predictably, was not at all taxed. He was moving at a fraction of his usual speed, more interested in Jaskier's form than his ability to move quickly. Eskel held his sword up the back of his own arm as he critiqued the bard's stance. “You need to be a little wider in your stance. Let’s go through the guard positions again - the ox, the plow, the fool and the roof. Ready?” Jaskier nodded and immediately slid his right foot back as Eskel struck downwards, blade rising to absorb the blow and prime the tip of the blade towards the Witcher’s throat; he swept downwards, making a single small step backwards during transition. The point now aimed at Eskel's chest, the hilt held more off to the side in front of his hip. </p><p>“Good.” Eskel murmured, and then span his blade ‘round to strike Jaskier's legs. The bard took another step back, moving the targeted leg out the way, and dipped the sword low; he launched a counter, swept Eskel’s blade out the way and tilted his own back over his head for a downwards swing that the Witcher absorbed with a parry at his shoulder. “Excellent. Maybe Lambert has a future in teaching swordsmanship.”</p><p>“I’ll have you know every young noble had to train to duel,” Jaskier mopped his forehead with the sleeve of his doublet. “In fact, I probably fought the most of all my peers, because - well, jealousy.”</p><p>“Jealousy?” Eskel smirked. </p><p>“Yes, I was an extremely good-looking young man. Fell in love quite easily - daily, in fact - and I tended to attract the older, <em> married </em> type. You <em> know </em> all this. Stop teasing me. On guard!” Jaskier launched forward in a series of swift arcs, wielding his elven blade alternately in one and two hands. The smile on Eskel’s face was blindingly bright, and he gave ground with almost lazy parries and deflections. By the end, he’d allowed himself to be backed into a tree, steel sword held down at his side, the tip of Jaskier’s own placed gently in the centre of his chest.</p><p>“Well, it seems you have bested me.” Eskel sighed dramatically, dropping his weapon to the floor. “What are your terms of surrender, noble warrior?” </p><p>“Hmm,” Jaskier twirled the blade around his hand, returning it to the sheath on his back before he pressed himself the full length of Eskel’s body. Slender fingers raked down over the Witcher’s chest, dipping in underneath his gambeson as he sucked his lower lip. “Chord transitions.”</p><p>“What?” Eskel blinked, the straining erection in the front of his trousers momentarily forgotten.</p><p>“I want to see whether you’ve been practicing. Come on. And we’ll practice singing and playing at the same time too. I’d rather hoped to sing with you in a public house before you drop me off at Oxenfurt.”</p><p>Eskel dropped his head back against the tree behind him, let out a long suffering sigh and headed towards Jaskier’s lute. Thankfully it only took two songs for Jaskier to lose his composure and pin Eskel to the floor. It had been four days since they’d bathed, but the grind of Jaskier’s hips against his, even with their breeches in place, the heat of his kisses and the softness of his hands was more than enough, and Eskel shuddered beneath him with a low groan. “<em>Fuck. </em> You’re a dream.” He slumped back, mouth agape as Jaskier straddled his hips, lower lip between his teeth. “You know, you’re a very good-looking old man as well.”</p><p>Jaskier guffawed. “How rude. I’m in the prime of my life.”</p><p>“No argument here.” Eskel reached up, snagged a handful of doublet and hauled Jaskier down for another kiss. <em> Life was definitely better with a side of bard. </em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Autumn Leaves</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On their final evening together before Eskel embarked on his own, Jaskier <em> finally </em> managed it. He convinced Eskel to play in front of a <em> legitimate </em> audience. He’d been planning it for the entirety of the previous week, watching Eskel’s fingers flicker effortlessly between chords. Still learning, still getting better. But <em> ready. </em></p><p>They walked through the gates of Oxenfurt just as the sun set behind them and immediately headed to one of Jaskier’s favourite haunts; the Alchemy. It tended to attract more discerning - and better paying - clientele. He sweetened the deal with a bowl of something meaty and a stout ale. Jaskier enjoyed watching his Witchers eat; mainly because they wolfed it down like their namesakes and then looked thoroughly satisfied when they were finished. Appreciating even the simplest pleasures in life. As Eskel lounged back, tankard balanced on his chest, Jaskier made his move, “Eskel.”</p><p>“Jaskier.” The Witcher looked over slowly, eyes narrowed. He knew that tone. Lambert and Jaskier had it in common. It meant: ‘I have an idea, and you’re really not going to like it, but we’re doing it anyway’. Eskel challenged anyone to resist them; they both used identical tactics, even if Lambert’s were cunningly disguised beneath a thin veil of snark. <em> Look </em> at those eyes. <em> Look. </em> </p><p>“Play a song with me,” Jaskier blew his baby blues as big as they would go, did a slight jut of the lower lip and cocked his head to the side. It would work. It <em> always </em> worked. But this was a big ask, so Jaskier held it a lot longer than he usually did, and even skittered a hand across the table to nudge the big paw sitting idly by the empty bowl.</p><p>Before meeting his irritatingly convincing bard, Eskel would sooner have faced a wyvern wearing nothing but a bow around his cock, wielding a tree branch, using Lil’ Bleater as bait, but three years ago he’d strode down the front of a lecture theatre at the university and delivered a twenty minute talk on love poetry. He was under no illusion; Jaskier had made that possible. It was a small step to play the lute for him in a tavern of drunk students. “Fine. Playing only, not singing.”</p><p>Jaskier looked <em> agonised</em>, but he knew when to quit while he was ahead… <em> mostly</em>. “Alright. Can’t convince you to do some freest- oh, no. Playing it is.” He leaned to the side, grabbed his lute and thrust it into Eskel’s lap. “Right. Song. Song… ah, you know what, I want to play your song. The Massacre at Kaer Morhen.”</p><p>“Really?” Eskel tilted his head to the side. “Is this - it’s a bit of a -, don’t you want to play something a bit more upbeat?”</p><p>“No. I want to get back to doing something that I always loved. That I always... something that is unquestionably <em> good </em> and <em> pure</em>. No politics, no double dealings or hidden agenda. Showing people the truth about my Witcher. And now I should be working even harder, because I have four to care for.” He fluttered his hands, cleared his throat and leapt up onto a table. Several drinks clattered dangerously, but Jaskier was so well-known in his locale that people simply heaved a sigh and moved them out the way. There was really no point in raising protest.</p><p>“Ladies and gentlemen. I present to you a song by a bard and his Witcher. It is a song of sacrifice, of loss, of madness; of an order abandoned by those it served. The Massacre of Kaer Morhen.” Now <em> that </em> earned people’s attention. Every single set of eyes found Eskel, even if it was just in passing curiosity before they returned to their cards or drink. The Witcher heaved a deep sigh, clenched his hand against the urge to touch his face and instead applied it to the strings of the lute. The moment Jaskier’s beautiful tenor filled his ears, he felt the tension ease out of his shoulders.</p><p>There was something magical about watching Jaskier in his element. His arms spread wide, his chest open and his hands swaying and gesturing theatrically when appropriate. It was a sad story - of fire, death and a broken castle in the mountains - so his flourishes were muted somewhat, but still his palm swept through the air at the peak of his vibrato, the other planted to his chest. Eskel knew the song well enough for his fingers to find their different positions without scrutiny, so he could lean back and watch it all. The tavern faded away. It was just his songbird in full flight. Loving, and powerful, and just so beautiful. Eskel <em> yearned. </em> It was so far beyond just the physical, but it was the only way Eskel could comprehend it. The feeling sat deep in the back of his mind and his heart, like a swell of heat and pressure that made him want to do nothing more than scoop Jaskier from that table and hold him for an eternity.</p><p>The applause was <em> raucous </em> . Eskel shrunk a bit further back into the booth when it snapped him out of his reverie, but Jaskier wouldn’t have it. He hopped down from the table, grabbed his Witcher by the elbow and <em> pulled </em>until he gave in and stepped into the candle light. The money they earned paid for their meal, Scorpion’s stabling and left enough over to interest a blacksmith. Eskel’s equipment looked more tired than he did. Jaskier slipped it straight into his hand, “Well, would you look at that? And the only monster you had to slay was your own timidity.”</p><p>“I am not timid.” Eskel growled, only to be patted on the side of the face like an insolent pup. Jaskier slung his sword and lute across his back, ever the image of the dashing warrior-bard, and sauntered out into the street. His Witcher followed obediently. </p><p>The university room was pretty much as Eskel remembered it; well-kept and clean, if a little musty from disuse. Jaskier threw open one of the windows and dumped his bag on the writing desk. There was a stack of mail, but he’d deal with that later. Since his little… debacle, they kept this room open for him. Probably worried that Vesemir would come back and exact some penance if they had the audacity to deny Jaskier lodgings. Since making connections with some of the professors, Vesemir wandered down from Morhen Valley every now and then to exchange academic discourse. The threat of retribution on Jaskier’s behalf was very real. Papa Wolf could be fierce when he wanted to be.</p><p>“Right. Baths should be completely empty by now. They’ll all be in town drinking. Coming?” Jaskier grabbed two towels from inside the cupboard by the bed and was already halfway to the door before Eskel had even managed to unclip his sword belts. “Quickly, quickly. I want to see what other types of music those hands can make, but we both smell worse than Geralt covered in Selkiemore.” Eskel laughed, dumped his armour and followed Jaskier into the corridors, wash kit in hand.</p><p>The baths underneath Oxenfurt were nothing compared to Kaer Morhen. They weren’t spring-fed for one, but maintained by a series of furnaces, tunnels and the constant changing of water. Eskel washed his hands, arms and legs off in a bowl of water once they’d shed and folded their clothes. No use in taking <em> all </em> the road dust in with him. Jaskier hauled him away from one of the bigger baths to a secluded pool in one corner. Partially obscured by a divide and a rather large potted plant, they were provided a good deal of privacy from any new arrivals. Eskel smirked, “Hmm.”</p><p>“Oh come on. I haven’t touched you properly in a week and a half. You thought this was going to be a frisk free soak?” Jaskier spoke in a hushed whisper, raised a brow and immediately plastered himself to Eskel’s side when the Witcher settled in the water next to him, one leg slung over a muscled thigh even as Eskel tried to wash. The bard let out a contented sigh, and then dropped an absolute dancing star bomb of a question. “At what age do Witchers retire?”</p><p>Eskel froze mid-scrub, soap slowly placed back down on top of his wash kit. Of course, this wasn’t something Jaskier had discussed with Geralt in their twenty-two years of travelling. Why would he? For someone young, adventures went on forever. It was all about the present. The <em> now. </em> The Witcher shifted, cleared his throat, “They don’t tend to retire, Jaskier.”</p><p>“What? But Vesemir has, surely?”</p><p>“He still hunts, has responsibilities at the keep. But… uh, Witchers stay on the Path until -,” he ran his hand over the right side of his face, fingertips tracing the familiar channels of the scars there, “until it kills us. It's just the way it is. The way it's always been.” </p><p>“No.”</p><p>“What?” </p><p>“That’s not happening,” Jaskier said it so <em> defiantly </em> that Eskel almost agreed out of reflex. “You’ll retire. With me. Here if needs-be.”</p><p>“Jaskier, that -.”</p><p>“Don’t argue with me. It’s my last remaining want in life. To have all of you permanently in one place. Lambert can go into brewing, or… I don’t know, he has so much energy he could probably do multiple jobs, Geralt can work with horses or with animals of any kind, because he <em> adores </em> them, and you… you will spend several hundred years buried in poetry and literature, perhaps teaching, Vesemir too,” Jaskier was talking so quickly, so passionately, that Eskel put out a hand to steady him in case he ended up drowning in the bath in his fervour. “I will <em> not </em> accept that you must commit your entire lives to darkness and death. You all deserve better.”</p><p>Eskel sighed, one damp hand combing over Jaskier’s hair as he considered the fierce glint in his eye. Much had changed since Eskel had started walking the Path many decades ago. Some things that he’d never expected, or even dreamed of. A way to help Lambert, Geralt had <em> returned </em> to him and the love of the fiercest bard he’d ever known. Perhaps… perhaps Eskel could dare hope. “Cats.”</p><p>“What?” Now it was Jaskier’s turn to blink in confusion.</p><p>“Geralt can’t work with cats. They don’t like Witchers. So, we would have to find him a stable where they use terriers as ratters, rather than cats.”</p><p>Jaskier beamed. “I’ll get on it straight away.”</p><p>***</p><p>Autumn slouched into summer’s place. The leaves turned, the skies grew darker and the weather dreary. It didn’t bother Eskel much. No matter what contracts he faced - drowners, hags, wraiths, necrophages - every week he returned to Oxenfurt, bedraggled and tired, to fall into the arms of his bard. It was an arrangement he could get used to, even if he knew it couldn’t last. There wasn’t enough work in such a small area to occupy him for an entire year. </p><p>What he <em> didn’t </em> realise was that Jaskier was using it as a dry run for all of them. They hadn’t discussed ‘Witcher retirement’ any further, even though it was now a thought lodged in Eskel’s head, persistent and unshakeable. <em> Could </em> Witchers retire? It would mean shedding a responsibility they had been <em> built </em> for… but then, the monsters were becoming fewer. Humanity was suffocating anything that did not fit with their agenda. <em> The march of progress, </em> Lambert had called it one winter, bitter and disparaging. But perhaps it didn’t have to be a bad thing.</p><p>Eskel tried to put it to the back of his mind as he pursued his latest contract.</p><p>Werewolves were a pain in the ass for many reasons. Quick, intelligent and sometimes the curse could be reversed. So the first thing you needed to do was work out whether they were ‘reversible’, or whether they just needed to be put down. Eskel spent three days following the trail of the beast and felt like he’d traversed half of Redania in its wake. Eventually, he worked out that his wolf had been <em> born</em>, and didn’t suffer any remorse for the trail of destruction it left behind. That sealed its fate.</p><p>Eskel swathed his silver blade in the appropriate oil and waited. The beast returned to a particular burrow every few days to rest, sometimes it brought a meal with it, and the remains of its previous banquets crackled and snapped beneath Eskel’s feet as he found himself an appropriate perch. It didn’t take long for his quarry to return. The thump and grate of something heavy followed the pad of paws; it was dragging something big back to its den. As a huge shadow crossed over the cave entrance, Eskel knocked back a Rook and a Blizzard. He could see fine thanks to the moonlight that flooded in through holes in the cavern roof, so no need for Cat. Veins pressed against his skin as his muscles seized and expanded, his already <em> inhuman </em> strength increased tenfold. </p><p>The werewolf hauled the carcass further into the cave and then stopped, its snout raised to the air as it caught a foreign scent, lips peeling back from its teeth in a feral snarl. Eskel leapt down from his perch and sped forward. He crushed its hulking form into the cavern wall with his shoulder and scraped his blade through its leg. Even hamstrung, it was lethal, and threw Eskel away with an errant swipe of its arm. Serrated claws screeched across stone as it sprang forward and the Witcher dodged; its left leg shook under its weight as the decoction from his sword worked its toxic magic. Eskel launched forward to land another blow, but the wolf was ready. It knocked his sword from his hand and landed a lucky shot across his thigh. With Rook flooding every muscle fibre, he barely noticed.</p><p>Aard smashed the wolf away and bought Eskel enough time to recover. <em> Just. </em> Scenting blood, it dashed in for the kill. He caught its head in both hands - one on the bottom of its jaw, the other wrapped about its snout - and <em> pulled. </em> Bone snapped, flesh split and the beast fell back with an agonised yelp. As its head thrashed, jaw hanging loose, Eskel snatched his sword from the floor and drove it up through the roof of its mouth. Blood flooded down his arm as he yanked the blade free again and watched the light in piercing green eyes fade. “I fucking hate werewolves.” He informed no one in particular, voice lower as muscles in his neck and chest bulged under Rook’s influence. </p><p>It was only when he was riding back to the township for his payment and his potions began to fade that he felt the pain in his leg. Gloved fingers pushed through the scraps of his trousers and the loose skin, and he sighed; he could feel the blood running down his calf and shin now. A few stitches, a helping of Swallow, a good night’s sleep; it would be fine. Except… “Well, Scorpion, I think it may be fatal without administering a generous amount of bard,” he murmured, urging his horse a little faster down the track. “Yes. Bard is definitely needed.”   </p><p>***</p><p>Jaskier was tidying up some paperwork when Eskel stumbled through the door and dumped his bags unceremoniously on the floor. It took all of about three seconds for the bard to give him the once over and fly into action - bath, fresh bandages, a hot meal. It happened in a hurricane of movement, reprimands and declarations of love. “<em> How could you leave yourself in this state? </em> I’m so glad you’re here, I was missing you - <em> look at this needlework, did you just stab at it and hope for the best </em> - give me a kiss please - <em> when was the last time you ate anything, do I have to do everything - </em>come, cuddle with me in bed.” </p><p>Eskel just smiled all the while, and by the time Jaskier was finished he was bedded down beneath warm blankets, full of good food, with soft lips pressed to the side of his neck. Jaskier pulled away to give him an amused look, “You came back early so I could look after you, didn’t you?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“So well-trained. Such a good Witcher.” </p><p>Eskel smirked and parroted back what was expected of him. “Damn straight I’m a good Witcher,” he cast Jaskier a sly glance from the corner of his eye, “do I get a reward for my loyalty and obedience?” </p><p>“Hmm. Yes. I think so.” Jaskier tickled his fingers down Eskel’s chest to hook under the blanket. He wriggled beneath and gently nudged his Witcher’s thighs apart. Soft lips travelled down the curves of his stomach, and Jaskier squirmed lower until his face was level with the truly magnificent cock begging for attention. The tip of his tongue worked from the base in slow, indulgent laps; he loved the taste, loved the way Eskel flexed and twitched in anticipation, thighs spreading eagerly. Rough fingers carded through soft brown hair, eventually cupping at the back of his head with the lightest pressure. Jaskier chuckled and the vibrations knotted in Eskel’s groin as that sweet mouth finally engulfed him.</p><p>“Mm, Jaskier… that…” Eskel growled as Jaskier’s lascivious tongue swirled around him. <em> Fuck</em>, he wasn’t going to last. His head fell back against the wall, amber eyes lidded, as Jaskier fell lower, the barrier of his throat squeezing at Eskel’s glans, teeth grazing against the soft skin of his shaft.  Pants became peppered with growls and moans, and the fingers at the back of Jaskier’s head tightened. The pace was slow, lazy almost, but it was <em> perfect</em>, and when Eskel came it spilled through him with glorious languor, leaving him feeling weak and heavy. “I wish I never had to leave…” He whispered to the ceiling. </p><p>“Then don’t,” Jaskier murmured, throat hoarse. “Stay. I’ll - we’ll make it work. And then we’ll set out for Kaer Morhen before the first snow.”</p><p>Perhaps it was because Jaskier was still ruddy-cheeked and ruffled from giving him head, or maybe it was the howling storm whipping up outside juxtaposed with the knowledge that he was about to lie down in a soft bed with one of his lovers pressed to his side; the injury in his leg, or just the weight of tiredness that always began to settle permanently in the mid-autumn, but suddenly the Path just didn’t seem all that important… “Alright. I’ll stay.”</p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Seasonal Musings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Every year Vesemir watched his family disappear from that trail with the knowledge that it might be the last time. During the winter, he committed them to memory. Every smile, every scar, every stupid joke. They were all he had left, but he had to let them go because this was the only life they knew. The only life they had. The first few days inside the keep were always the hardest. Without the general noise created by Lambert’s mere presence, or the sound of Jaskier’s lute - the lad was always making some form of music, be it with his voice or with his lute - the winds howled even louder. Eskel and Geralt left a huge void too. They had a presence as big as the hearts that beat inside their chests. Hearts that had finally been filled by each other, and the overwhelming love of their bard. Without them, the keep just felt <em> empty. </em> So Vesemir went and sat in Rennes’ office. The pups didn’t go up there. It had unpleasant memories even to this day; he caught Lambert in there <em> once</em>. He’d come to vandalize the desk, but had ended up standing in front of it and staring. He hadn’t the darkness in his heart to do it.</p><p>“I’ve never seen them so happy, Rennes,” Vesemir said quietly, his hands clasped over his stomach as he leaned back in the chair. The fanatics hadn’t bothered coming up this high either, so the room was relatively untouched. Rennes had died in the courtyard fighting with everyone else. “All three of them. Even Lambert. Yes, I know, I’m surprised too.” It was always a one-sided conversation. Rennes never replied. He was at peace in the graveyard with everyone else, but Vesemir liked to think that he might <em> hear </em> from wherever souls ended up. “Part of me wonders whether it’s time for us to bring it all to an end, and then I get another call from the Aen Seidhe and realise the Continent can’t do without us yet.” He leaned forward and opened one of the drawers. Rennes’ journal - one of <em> many </em> - sat in the bottom. Bound in old leather, the pages were yellowing and the cover was crumbling, but Vesemir still opened it every now and then to read through familiar words. This one was filled with his musings on the turning tide against nonhumans. He hadn’t realised when writing it just how close that vitriol was to his own front door. But each year, Rennes’ voice became a little more obscure; a little more distant. “Perhaps my memory’s failing me in my old age.” He could imagine Rennes laughing at him. “Hmm.” <em> Time to get to work. </em></p><p>The spring was all about planting. In the greenhouse and in the gardens behind the keep. The more vulnerable vegetables went in the greenhouse along with the rarer herbs usually only found far south in Toussaint. Every day Vesemir worked until the sun set and then traipsed down to the springs to wash away the sweat and dirt from his labour. In the evenings he sat and read or did some sewing; the boys left shirts, braies, trousers, pieces of armour lying around in their rooms. Vesemir collected it all and when they returned next winter everything would be <em> miraculously </em> repaired. Occasionally he headed down the slopes to help the locals with a monster or two. Nothing too taxing. Pests mainly, but it was enough to pay for a few items here and there that the keep couldn’t source itself.</p><p>In the spring he found himself thinking of Geralt often. Never had he met a Witcher so thoroughly ensnared in the talons of destiny. From the very moment he’d been dropped off as a babe, Vesemir had seen something <em> different </em> in his eyes. Geralt was meant for something <em> more </em> than just the Path. Something greater. Vesemir’s hunch had only been proven when he survived the additional mutations. Ninety-ish years went by, and then destiny came to collect her dues. Ciri. The granddaughter he’d never dreamed he’d have. Full of passion, energy and dreams. Vesemir missed her. Thought of her often. Sat on Geralt’s shoulders, tugging at his white hair and making him grin like an idiot. It wasn’t just Ciri that did that now though. Eskel, Jaskier and Lambert all made him smile that way. His winters were no longer spent in melancholy reflection, “Hmm. Nothing melancholy at all about what those lot get up to.” He informed the keep one evening. It seemed to murmur in agreement. Just the winds howling through the empty halls.</p><p>Summer flared to life almost unexpectedly. A large storm rolled through the mountains and then then the following few weeks were scorchingly hot, even with the constant breeze flowing down from the peaks. Vesemir spent much of the morning and late afternoons watering. When the sun was at its highest and the outside scorching, he retired inside and did some repairs on the castle or continued Jaskier’s work in the library. Once it was cool enough, it was finally time to let Roach and Dandelion out. The little foal was maturing quickly. At six months now, he imitated his mother and tugged enthusiastically at grass and bags of hay when he was separated from her. Initially he’d been so weak and scrawny - Vesemir had been worried that his pups would return to bad news - but Dandelion was developing into a robust colt. A bit like Lambert, really.</p><p>When<em> that </em> particular firecracker arrived at Kaer Morhen, trouble had been written all over him, despite his small frame. From his first encounter with Theo out in the courtyard, Lambert had identified himself as someone not to be taken lightly. Every time Vesemir had taken the belt to him for disobedience, or huffing alchemy ingredients, or brawling, he’d done so lightly, with knowledge that it wasn’t doing any good. There was no extinguishing the fire in that boy’s eyes; no healing the raw, open wounds cut into his heart by the way the world had treated him. <em> Or so he’d thought. </em> Eskel had seen something, Barmin had too. So had Jaskier. The bard had found a way beneath the brambles to a soft centre that no one had explored before. And when someone hurt him, took his trust and abused it, Lambert sought out those he loved eventually to help rather than allow it to tear him apart; all it had taken was a gentle reminder of those that were there for him. Lambert had become a better man, both for himself and for others. His passion redirected into something good and fulfilling. Not just empty rage. <em> Well, a better man within reason. </em> He was still a first rate pain in the backside.</p><p>The summer months were long, but eventually they began to fade. The leaves turned and autumn settled in. Blue skies turned greyer and the winds began to discover their bite once again. Autumn was about harvesting and stocking up. Vesemir spent a lot of time hunting and gathering. The pantry needed to be full for when his pups arrived home. Most of the meat he dried and cured. In the cool depths of the cellars, it would keep in barrels for a long time. He diced, dried and stored herbs and began to move some of the vegetable troughs into shelter. Dandelion was getting big and now he stayed in a separate stall to Roach, nosing her curiously over the divide but otherwise content with his own space. Vesemir was sure to keep Scorpion’s stall clean and ready for him; the stallion was a gentle creature, as gentle as his owner in fact.</p><p>As reddened leaves fell from the few non-coniferous trees outside the walls of Kaer Morhen, Vesemir thought about Eskel. The most robust and gentle of his three sons; mature, reliable and steadfast in the face of all hardship. He had always seen himself as second to Geralt, not realising that it was Geralt who looked to <em> him </em> for guidance and reassurance. Even through their training years. It was Eskel that had worked by Vesemir’s side to clear the majority of the carnage left behind after the pogrom. It was <em> Eskel </em> that had carried Barmin, Rennes and Theo to their funeral pyres when Vesemir could barely bring himself to look at them, let alone touch them. His brothers, his friends, his family. Torn to pieces by the hatred of man. Vesemir loved all of his sons dearly, but it would always be Eskel he’d turn to in a time of need. And finally, <em> finally </em> Eskel had found someone <em> he </em> could turn to. In the shape of a blue-eyed, foppish-haired human bard.</p><p>As winter crept closer, Vesemir's thoughts were occupied by that very same bard. Because Jaskier was <em> human</em>. Not a Witcher. And humans didn’t last forever. Their bard was like a shooting star; brilliant, iridescent, but fleeting. Compared to Vesemir’s lifespan, Jaskier was still no more than a child; younger even than Lambert, but for his own kind he was maturing rapidly in years. It was a conversation Vesemir needed to have with his pups. That they needed to have with <em> each other. </em> Because Jaskier was soon to enter the winter of his life. And winters were hard. Bones ached, sickness set in and it was all too easy to think only of the darkness. <em> That simply would not do. </em> Not for Jaskier. Not for a man that had single-handedly brought light and love back into the howling, desolate halls of Kaer Morhen. And more than once Vesemir found himself leafing through an old magical text - looking - looking… he wasn’t sure what for. <em> Something. </em>“Not only is my memory failing me, Barmin, but I think I’m becoming sentimental too. You never warned me that this would come with age.” He thought of his mentor, kindly and wizened, a rarity amongst Witchers. “I could do with your advice now, old friend.” </p><p>By the time Eskel and Jaskier rode through the gates, the skies were already grey and heavy with the threat of snow. Vesemir threw his arms around both of them, accepting the kiss pressed to his cheek by their appallingly amorous bard, and then pulling Eskel into a tight embrace. “You look good, my boy.”</p><p>“Ahh, well, I might have taken a few weeks off.” Eskel looked sheepishly at Jaskier, and Vesemir could only laugh and shake his head. </p><p>“C’mon, I saw you a couple of days ago and made sure there would be food on the table for your arrival.”</p><p>For a few days, Vesemir enjoyed Eskel and Jaskier’s company. In the evenings he left them to canoodle and coo at each other with a good-natured huff, and retired to his own quarters with one of Rennes’ journals. The glow in Eskel’s eyes, the permanent smile on his face, it warmed Vesemir’s old heart, but there was only so much sickly-sweet affection he could view without finding it tiresome. One afternoon he dispatched Eskel to gather more firewood - “You might as well endure <em> some </em> hardship and discomfort this winter.” - and worked with Jaskier in the library.</p><p>“Jaskier, lad,” he placed a stack of books down on the desk. “How old are you?”</p><p>Witchers were direct with most things (other than matters of love, of course), and so Jaskier didn’t even bat an eye. “Forty-nine next year. I’m quite looking forward to fifty actually. Apparently it gives one additional permission to be lecherous and rude.”</p><p>Vesemir laughed. “I find that most assume you’re being lecherous and rude at a certain age, even if you don’t intend to be.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Jaskier hummed with a smile, and then plucked the first book from the top of the pile. </p><p>“Do you intend to continue travelling with the pack until the very end?”</p><p>“Well,” Jaskier closed the book and placed it down carefully once more. It was a book on insectoids. Only so many mandibles and carapaces he could look at and remain interested. “I was hoping that - one day soon - my wild pack of wolves might settle somewhere more permanently. But I’m informed that is not the way of things.”</p><p>“No. Witchers walk the Path until the very end,” Vesemir perched himself on the lip of the desk and considered the far wall thoughtfully. “But times are changing. And if we are to survive, then we must change with them.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“I haven’t been down to Oxenfurt this year. Usually I do head down for a few weeks each season to meet with the professors at the university, but because of Dandelion I’ve had to remain here,” Vesemir rubbed his bristled chin. “I’ve missed it. Never thought I’d enjoy the company of society. Not after - .” He waved his hand in the air, and Jaskier knew what he meant. <em> Not since the Purges.  </em></p><p>“In your heart you are still human, Vesemir. Loneliness, the desire for company, even if it's just conversation, these are all very <em> natural </em> wants. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be up here all on your own for an entire year. <em> ” </em></p><p>Vesemir glanced at Jaskier with a small smile, eyes twinkling. “I’m not one of my pups, lad. There’s no need to soothe me into talking about my emotions. I’m very much aware of where and what they are.”</p><p>“Oh, I’m… sorry, I didn’t…”</p><p>“No, no. Don’t worry. It’s easy to forget, even Eskel doesn’t know how to process them all the time, or pursue things he wants,” the old Witcher folded his arms. “But he took some time off and realised the world didn’t explode without him clearing out all its dark corners. You’re never going to shake him now.”</p><p>“Oh, dear heart, that was <em> very </em> much the plan all along.”</p><p>“Hmm. Well, when you’ve captured the last of them, don’t forget about your old wolf in his castle.” Vesemir stood and headed off to the other end of the library to continue rooting through, and Jaskier just smiled. <em> How could he ever forget about his old wolf? </em></p><p>A week later, Geralt walked - nay, <em> stumbled </em> - through the gates of Kaer Morhen. Eskel caught him as his legs momentarily gave in, and held him as he steadied again. Perhaps it was the view of the familiar - <em> home, his loved ones </em> - and his body had just folded with relief. He was fine. Not injured. But dirty, and exhausted. Jaskier and Eskel helped him in with his bags, bathed him and then took him to bed with a plate of food provided by Vesemir. Wrapped in warm furs and slumped against Eskel’s chest, he talked them through the <em> rest </em> of his year. Jaskier grabbed his quill and journal, and noted down every word. The Continent was in turmoil; Jaskier had kept an eye on the goings on from afar, and Eskel had brought back occasional snippets of news.</p><p>The story eventually reached its conclusion - Letho - and Eskel grunted. “You let him live?”</p><p>“Yes,” Geralt murmured, his eyes mostly closed. “He saved Triss. And I wondered what I would do if someone promised to rebuild Kaer Morhen. Protect my family. I’d kill every king on the Continent.” Because that was what Nilfgaard had promised, and Jaskier found the nib of quill punching through the pages, ink spidering outwards. <em> Of course Nilfgaard was behind it all. </em>Destabilise the Northern Kingdoms, invasion round three. </p><p>“Hmm,” Eskel stroked his fingers through Geralt’s hair, and it was enough for the wolf to drop off to sleep, head tilted to Eskel’s shoulder, his body melting into easy relaxation. “Maybe one year he’ll just hunt and kill monsters. You know, like the rest of us.”</p><p>Jaskier laughed. “It’s Geralt, my love. Nothing is ever so straight forward.” They curled up together around their exhausted wolf and slept soundly.</p><p>Another week passed and Lambert still hadn’t arrived. This was the latest he’d ever been, and Eskel was pacing frantically along the walls, or up in the highest tower in hopes of spotting him on the trail. “He’s never this late. He hunts Kaedwen, for fuck’s sake. What’s keeping him?” They’d managed to convince Eskel to come in from the wintry evening to warm up and eat, but he was stabbing mutinously at his food. It had started raining an hour ago. In a few more weeks that rain would be snow and the passes would fill up for months. Geralt nudged Eskel gently with his elbow and then nuzzled his head to the side of his face in comfort. Eskel sighed.</p><p>“Perhaps he got held up in Aedirn. He did say that battles meant necroph--.” Jaskier was rubbing Eskel’s arm when Vesemir appeared at the bottom of the spiral staircase.</p><p>“He’s here. Just rode through the gates.” They all stood as one and headed for the front entrance way; Eskel was going to hug him until he exploded, Geralt was going to rib him for getting lost and Jaskier was going to press kisses all over the scowl he would be wearing because of the previous two.</p><p>Lambert stepped in from the rain just as they reached the front doors; his horse stood just inside the stables to be dealt with later. He was completely soaked, because he had his cloak bundled in his arms. Eyes wide and hesitant, he glanced first at Eskel and then to Vesemir. His voice was almost… anxious, perhaps even bordering on <em>devastated,</em> when he spoke. “I did something you told me to never do. And I swore I never would, because it’s bad, and this life - it’s not - I just - I made a mistake.”</p><p>Vesemir grunted. “Well, lad, that’s a fairly extensive list. You’re going to need to be more specific.” And then it hit all the wolves at once. A scent beneath the rain, sweat and horse. Pure, like fresh linens and jasmine blooms. They looked together at the bundle in Lambert’s arms just as a small, pale hand - chubby and perfect - reached up towards Lambert’s face. The bundle gurgled, and then giggled.</p><p>“Oh my gods.” Jaskier sped forward and slapped his hands to his mouth.</p><p>“His name’s Caladrius,” Lambert croaked. “He’s my Child of Surprise.”</p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Winter at Kaer Morhen [Art - NSFW]</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Witchers and their bard enjoy a warm fire, a comfortable bed and each other.</p>
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<hr/><p><b>Work completed by the brilliant Mr. Sewers.</b><br/>
<a href="https://twitter.com/mr_sewers">Twitter [NSFW, 18+]</a>

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  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
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        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24326380">Facing the wyvern</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/embeer2004/pseuds/embeer2004">embeer2004</a>
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